The Divers
The bubbles seemed feeble
intrusive and insignificant as flies.
Indeed, we are insect-like in comparison
crawling under this endless rug
more ancient than the trees huddled with birds
and termites.
The first end of the ocean erupted in color
a blush of red-lipped coral
yellow fish darted like taxies on the boundless blue highways.
We lost ourselves in green kelp forests,
playing Marco Polo when the tide came in.
We put anemones on our extremities
and wore shells in our hair
we drank wine from mermaid’s cups
and made lovers of ourselves in the tidepools.
Then we, the precious fools we are,
could not help but follow the riptide
to find out if sailor’s tales were true.
So we were strangled by squid
led astray by the lamps of murderous fish
our fingers clamped by angry red oysters.
They would not give us their pearls
not for the price we could afford to pay.
You occupy your own hillside now
taking up permanent residence in your crumbling lighthouse
where you blow dandelion seeds so they taste land
and grow rampant like we said we would.
I am still lying in the waves,
a drowning woman waiting to be rescued.
Ships have come, even kind canoes
other shipwrecked men have offered me their hand
but I cough in their faces.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Potter and the Whale
I am all suggestion
and I’ve never seen snow this white,
so white it drowns out what would have been tears
to fill the barrels that by some rogue miracle
would have turned into wine.
It’s not a miracle
it’s just an alcoholic’s biology.
My face contorts,
and I cry out like a homeless prophet in flannel sheets,
my skin aching for clay,
for mud, for some desert tonic to fill me
with bubbles of light, the kind that make me spin in circles
flawless as a compass.
Teach me your language.
Let me wander your continent until I am weary enough
to rest in the oil twilight of your hair.
I am a patient stretched out far as the concrete girdles
that bind our country like a faceless consort
being burned like a witch or frozen like a god.
Maybe if I changed my voice,
changed my hair,
changed the color of my eyes so they don’t notice
the purple smoke that climbs up behind them.
I wanted your planes crashing into me until I felt everything,
until I felt nothing, until I felt something as expansive as grief
but something of an opposite.
I wanted the blacklight, the white light, some light to fill my vision
so that I couldn’t see you anymore, so you wouldn’t reflect
as you always do.
Teach me your language.
Let me wander your continent until I am weary enough
to rest in the oil twilight of your hair.
My mouth is tired, a cavern where no flashlights come to visit.
It is wet with love, but not yours.
It is the same fleshy extraterrestrials
that so often come to the same conclusion:
this planet is vague
this planet is yearning deeper than each and every widow
whose tongues are made of black lace,
whose palettes filled with white paint.
It aches, it moans, it waits,
but they only fix their eyes at the back of my throat
to see a transfiguration,
some mystery explored in ancient cloth.
You made your way out of my ocean
with mermaids licking salt from your sand-colored skin
brushing me from your hair.
You have shaken off
the wonders of deep water.
Like a beached whale, you can’t ignore it
you just want it picked apart
and I will be laid bare.
I will be laid bare for you.
and I’ve never seen snow this white,
so white it drowns out what would have been tears
to fill the barrels that by some rogue miracle
would have turned into wine.
It’s not a miracle
it’s just an alcoholic’s biology.
My face contorts,
and I cry out like a homeless prophet in flannel sheets,
my skin aching for clay,
for mud, for some desert tonic to fill me
with bubbles of light, the kind that make me spin in circles
flawless as a compass.
Teach me your language.
Let me wander your continent until I am weary enough
to rest in the oil twilight of your hair.
I am a patient stretched out far as the concrete girdles
that bind our country like a faceless consort
being burned like a witch or frozen like a god.
Maybe if I changed my voice,
changed my hair,
changed the color of my eyes so they don’t notice
the purple smoke that climbs up behind them.
I wanted your planes crashing into me until I felt everything,
until I felt nothing, until I felt something as expansive as grief
but something of an opposite.
I wanted the blacklight, the white light, some light to fill my vision
so that I couldn’t see you anymore, so you wouldn’t reflect
as you always do.
Teach me your language.
Let me wander your continent until I am weary enough
to rest in the oil twilight of your hair.
My mouth is tired, a cavern where no flashlights come to visit.
It is wet with love, but not yours.
It is the same fleshy extraterrestrials
that so often come to the same conclusion:
this planet is vague
this planet is yearning deeper than each and every widow
whose tongues are made of black lace,
whose palettes filled with white paint.
It aches, it moans, it waits,
but they only fix their eyes at the back of my throat
to see a transfiguration,
some mystery explored in ancient cloth.
You made your way out of my ocean
with mermaids licking salt from your sand-colored skin
brushing me from your hair.
You have shaken off
the wonders of deep water.
Like a beached whale, you can’t ignore it
you just want it picked apart
and I will be laid bare.
I will be laid bare for you.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Potter--11/3
The Potter
There’s a crescent moon and one stray star in the sky,
but I don’t bother to squint at it anymore
unless it’s full to the brim
and beating on my window.
Today I fantasized about your hands covered in clay,
but I won’t come unless I see it in real life
making bodies into vases.
I want you to smear it across my thighs and tell me
I belong to you like I belong to the earth.
My roots are planted in you
the white fibers woven throughout you.
The story in the soil is a love song
that whispers through highways and the blue light
of apartments with white curtains
I hear your thoughts in the snow on the fire escapes.
Our pages are yellowed with smoke
and my cursive script is undetectable
but you have a bright lamp and I have the time
let’s decode the necessity of absence
when we could have been kissing our eyelids
and watering our houseplants.
Love cannot be kept a secret
it begs to reveal itself in the most garish purple.
There’s a crescent moon and one stray star in the sky,
but I don’t bother to squint at it anymore
unless it’s full to the brim
and beating on my window.
Today I fantasized about your hands covered in clay,
but I won’t come unless I see it in real life
making bodies into vases.
I want you to smear it across my thighs and tell me
I belong to you like I belong to the earth.
My roots are planted in you
the white fibers woven throughout you.
The story in the soil is a love song
that whispers through highways and the blue light
of apartments with white curtains
I hear your thoughts in the snow on the fire escapes.
Our pages are yellowed with smoke
and my cursive script is undetectable
but you have a bright lamp and I have the time
let’s decode the necessity of absence
when we could have been kissing our eyelids
and watering our houseplants.
Love cannot be kept a secret
it begs to reveal itself in the most garish purple.
Dirt Floors--11/3
Dirt Floors
You cleared your rain gutters
and told me my face was too white.
There’s not enough contrast
and I am not your complimentary color.
The way I saw it,
we were a pair of 3D glasses peering onto a screen
allowing images to converge.
I am water and I wore you down like earth,
but you receded before I could erode you enough to reveal
the soil beneath.
So wear your flannel
build houses out of sticks or stones
find a woman to keep you warmer than I,
a threadbare quilt.
I am worn thinner than paper
a few stray threads
and made up of so many scraps of pioneer dresses.
You swept up the crumbs from your kitchen floor
and rinsed out old bottles of wine for recycling.
Here is the one I made you try
and you spit out the window.
You said it tastes to much like oak trees
and the tongues of irises.
I hear you shuffle barefoot on your dirt floor cabin.
Listening, I am the glass in the dustpan.
You cleared your rain gutters
and told me my face was too white.
There’s not enough contrast
and I am not your complimentary color.
The way I saw it,
we were a pair of 3D glasses peering onto a screen
allowing images to converge.
I am water and I wore you down like earth,
but you receded before I could erode you enough to reveal
the soil beneath.
So wear your flannel
build houses out of sticks or stones
find a woman to keep you warmer than I,
a threadbare quilt.
I am worn thinner than paper
a few stray threads
and made up of so many scraps of pioneer dresses.
You swept up the crumbs from your kitchen floor
and rinsed out old bottles of wine for recycling.
Here is the one I made you try
and you spit out the window.
You said it tastes to much like oak trees
and the tongues of irises.
I hear you shuffle barefoot on your dirt floor cabin.
Listening, I am the glass in the dustpan.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
untitled so far
Black dress metaphors + WASP imagery=I watch too much Gossip Girl and I'm madly...smitten.
-d
****
You are the seam I don’t want to rip out.
I’ve re-sewn this black dress again and again;
the style has changed with me.
It started as a moon-shaped collar,
but it became a neckline as low as a drowned man
and the black satin lay strewn on the cutting room floor.
It was a dirty movie I never wanted to see again.
I’ve made some cuts
taken it in and stretched it out
crazy stitched a red heart
that looked more like the burning end of an expensive cigarette.
I wore it to Gatsby’s summer parties
a black hole in white-hot August
the sweat and wine blotting out the fabric
like an exploding feather pen.
The sun burned my shoulders
and all of old money New York saw me plunge into the pool.
I made a spectacle of myself
just as I planned it.
I met you on a yacht in the racing red heart of Indian summer.
All their couture eyelids opened to watch the idiot
throw herself off the edge in a deafening splash
but you pulled at my sweater
and I fell back on deck.
What started as yet another cheap performance,
yet another manic fit
soon became what some call love
(but I’m not sure.)
Carl Sandburg’s cat cleans himself in my apartment
as we create chills for ourselves, a magnificent fever.
You made me a perfect tailor
on a dark dance floor.
-d
****
You are the seam I don’t want to rip out.
I’ve re-sewn this black dress again and again;
the style has changed with me.
It started as a moon-shaped collar,
but it became a neckline as low as a drowned man
and the black satin lay strewn on the cutting room floor.
It was a dirty movie I never wanted to see again.
I’ve made some cuts
taken it in and stretched it out
crazy stitched a red heart
that looked more like the burning end of an expensive cigarette.
I wore it to Gatsby’s summer parties
a black hole in white-hot August
the sweat and wine blotting out the fabric
like an exploding feather pen.
The sun burned my shoulders
and all of old money New York saw me plunge into the pool.
I made a spectacle of myself
just as I planned it.
I met you on a yacht in the racing red heart of Indian summer.
All their couture eyelids opened to watch the idiot
throw herself off the edge in a deafening splash
but you pulled at my sweater
and I fell back on deck.
What started as yet another cheap performance,
yet another manic fit
soon became what some call love
(but I’m not sure.)
Carl Sandburg’s cat cleans himself in my apartment
as we create chills for ourselves, a magnificent fever.
You made me a perfect tailor
on a dark dance floor.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
tova
I read a short interview in Time magazine about a woman named Tova who was a flawless matchmaker, but only for Orthodox Jews. She claimed that the first time she made a match, God spoke to her.
-d
******
Tova
Five pointed stars swing over my head
a silent wind chime
that only I can hear.
People are like icebergs
but age and violent sunlight
make everything that is underwater
seem less significant.
I must be some sort of reparation
for the ash we lived in all those years.
The only thing god could send
was flowers and chocolates.
Diamonds are the new manna.
I send them all to live in white houses
with fresh cut flowers brought in by some Gentile woman
every Wednesday.
Bathrooms with monogrammed towels
and portraits in the paper.
And I sit on my digital cloud
waiting for names and faces to magnetize.
-d
******
Tova
Five pointed stars swing over my head
a silent wind chime
that only I can hear.
People are like icebergs
but age and violent sunlight
make everything that is underwater
seem less significant.
I must be some sort of reparation
for the ash we lived in all those years.
The only thing god could send
was flowers and chocolates.
Diamonds are the new manna.
I send them all to live in white houses
with fresh cut flowers brought in by some Gentile woman
every Wednesday.
Bathrooms with monogrammed towels
and portraits in the paper.
And I sit on my digital cloud
waiting for names and faces to magnetize.
satisfaction
Satisfaction
I was, as always, a spectacle.
My eyes, when they were shut,
were like two eraser marks
and when I opened them, you could see all the mistakes.
Such a strange bird I must have been.
The female flaunting her few bright feathers
that ridiculous yellow against brown.
You left when most people are waking up
and offered me no promise of finding an end to the maze
or a solution to the puzzle.
Only the theories spinning in my head
knocking against the skeletal wall.
Was I a whore or a nurse?
A trapeze artist or a crumbling statue?
An addict or a kind apothecary?
Another wedding dress is burning
in the little closet in my brain.
Only this time, I use the sleeve
to light my cigarette.
I was, as always, a spectacle.
My eyes, when they were shut,
were like two eraser marks
and when I opened them, you could see all the mistakes.
Such a strange bird I must have been.
The female flaunting her few bright feathers
that ridiculous yellow against brown.
You left when most people are waking up
and offered me no promise of finding an end to the maze
or a solution to the puzzle.
Only the theories spinning in my head
knocking against the skeletal wall.
Was I a whore or a nurse?
A trapeze artist or a crumbling statue?
An addict or a kind apothecary?
Another wedding dress is burning
in the little closet in my brain.
Only this time, I use the sleeve
to light my cigarette.
white rabbit
White Rabbit
So smoke your cigars and drink your wine.
There’s enough matches to go around
and there is always someone to clean your lipstick off the glass.
I never thought I’d miss the collegiate life.
That slot machine everyone kept feeding
on the off chance we’d get lucky.
Still I can’t say bohemia isn’t any kind of insurance
I can rely on.
Now I sit up in the attic drinking bottled Pabst
and eating blueberries for breakfast
too afraid to know love as anyone more than an acquaintance
he wasn’t that great of a friend anyway.
So I am left as nervous as a white rabbit,
waiting to see if I’ll appear
out of nowhere.
So smoke your cigars and drink your wine.
There’s enough matches to go around
and there is always someone to clean your lipstick off the glass.
I never thought I’d miss the collegiate life.
That slot machine everyone kept feeding
on the off chance we’d get lucky.
Still I can’t say bohemia isn’t any kind of insurance
I can rely on.
Now I sit up in the attic drinking bottled Pabst
and eating blueberries for breakfast
too afraid to know love as anyone more than an acquaintance
he wasn’t that great of a friend anyway.
So I am left as nervous as a white rabbit,
waiting to see if I’ll appear
out of nowhere.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
8/21--Cassandra
Cassandra
Cassandra is a chemical
colliding with herself,
the green blue light of reactions
a lunatic’s moonlight laboratory, where she
practices that same alchemy all rejected lovers know.
“I, more than anyone
should believe in phantoms.”
she says between bites of juniper berries
and olive pits clicking against her teeth.
Wine and smoke slosh and curl down her throat.
The imagined one imagines Cassandra’s marble legs
descending her wooden stairs
her ghost close behind.
His tears
hot rivers running down her legs.
Her exorcism: “My mind might be a nice place to visit
but I doubt you’d want to live there.”
“He tells me, ‘Write it down, Cassandra.’
as if I haven’t already,
but it is all fantasy, a story told to an ugly child.”
she explains, her brain a burning mattress
or a lukewarm tub.
Inside her body, guitar strings strangle her organs.
That same ghost, of course.
Cassandra is a chemical
colliding with herself,
the green blue light of reactions
a lunatic’s moonlight laboratory, where she
practices that same alchemy all rejected lovers know.
“I, more than anyone
should believe in phantoms.”
she says between bites of juniper berries
and olive pits clicking against her teeth.
Wine and smoke slosh and curl down her throat.
The imagined one imagines Cassandra’s marble legs
descending her wooden stairs
her ghost close behind.
His tears
hot rivers running down her legs.
Her exorcism: “My mind might be a nice place to visit
but I doubt you’d want to live there.”
“He tells me, ‘Write it down, Cassandra.’
as if I haven’t already,
but it is all fantasy, a story told to an ugly child.”
she explains, her brain a burning mattress
or a lukewarm tub.
Inside her body, guitar strings strangle her organs.
That same ghost, of course.
Monday, July 14, 2008
7/14--Aftertaste
Aftertaste
A broken heart can make anyone a sponge.
Faceless and asexual,
the guru of the coral reef.
A patient samana
(if only to be
such a beautiful word).
So I kissed a stranger last night
(the only thing I remember was that his hair was nice
it was blonde like a surfer’s swell
but it couldn’t be in this Midwest bar.)
We kissed behind a blue plywood door
if only to get the aftertaste of you
off my tongue
maybe this one would lift the curse you put on me.
Mine was a fate much like a rape victim
or a stray dog.
You are the only story I can tell
repetitive as a romance novel formula
(girl meets boy
girl goes against her coy feminine instincts
and falls in love.
best friend seduces boy.
boy gives girl shards of hope
best friend finally claims boy with a lease
boy rejects girl
girl resents boy)
and so on.
Like this I open the same wound like a Christmas gift
quickly, I tear away the paper to find the same gag:
the same rotting apple cores
the same damage
the same look of disappointment as the neighbor boy
laughs in his folding chair.
Lately I entertain ideas of new characters to replace you
a guitarist with no arms
a bored housewife turned cross-dresser
a hip lesbian with a parrot on her shoulder
some girl named Catastrophe
but you always creep in with your key of D (slightly out of tune)
and blue work shirt (slightly unflattering)
and your glasses on my dressing table
and your Dutch master nose.
It all shows up in the doorway
as I drop the bleach rag on the tile
or spill a bowl of olives
I cross out paragraph after paragraph
strophe after strophe
but you reappear again.
(sometimes when someone asks my name
I can’t reply with anything but
‘I’ll never tell…’)
A broken heart can make anyone a sponge.
Faceless and asexual,
the guru of the coral reef.
A patient samana
(if only to be
such a beautiful word).
So I kissed a stranger last night
(the only thing I remember was that his hair was nice
it was blonde like a surfer’s swell
but it couldn’t be in this Midwest bar.)
We kissed behind a blue plywood door
if only to get the aftertaste of you
off my tongue
maybe this one would lift the curse you put on me.
Mine was a fate much like a rape victim
or a stray dog.
You are the only story I can tell
repetitive as a romance novel formula
(girl meets boy
girl goes against her coy feminine instincts
and falls in love.
best friend seduces boy.
boy gives girl shards of hope
best friend finally claims boy with a lease
boy rejects girl
girl resents boy)
and so on.
Like this I open the same wound like a Christmas gift
quickly, I tear away the paper to find the same gag:
the same rotting apple cores
the same damage
the same look of disappointment as the neighbor boy
laughs in his folding chair.
Lately I entertain ideas of new characters to replace you
a guitarist with no arms
a bored housewife turned cross-dresser
a hip lesbian with a parrot on her shoulder
some girl named Catastrophe
but you always creep in with your key of D (slightly out of tune)
and blue work shirt (slightly unflattering)
and your glasses on my dressing table
and your Dutch master nose.
It all shows up in the doorway
as I drop the bleach rag on the tile
or spill a bowl of olives
I cross out paragraph after paragraph
strophe after strophe
but you reappear again.
(sometimes when someone asks my name
I can’t reply with anything but
‘I’ll never tell…’)
7/14--Hôtel Mathieu
Once again, I'm giving the finger to expectations and gender roles and writing a non-romantically themed poem about a guy.
Here's to you, Matthew. Thanks for existing.
-db.
***
Hôtel Mathieu
You would sit on the sofa, awaiting the tragedy
of the day
like the dog-eared page
in the bathroom Reader’s Digest.
I’d tell you the tale directly from the tarot cards
that I thought spelled out my fate
as I flipped them over and over in my brain.
My psycho-astrology was fucked.
I’m a red beret lunatic born on a cursed day: November 3
when death has lost it’s novelty
there are no daisies in my eye sockets
and my candy skull dissolved in the rain.
There are no saints on my playing cards
I no longer fish for Saint Anthony
when I lose my keys.
You nod at my metaphors as you stir the macaroni,
the gypsy punk at the antique stove.
I’ve been comfortable staying in your film noir hotel
where it is all black curtains and red scarves
over white paper lamps.
Photographs of inky women with skin like paper
beauty is all chemical
all grayscale.
Lately you don’t mind my lack of scandal.
Everyone needs the neutral poet who only makes love
to her green desk lamp.
Hold the umbrella, amigo.
It’s been raining all morning.
Here's to you, Matthew. Thanks for existing.
-db.
***
Hôtel Mathieu
You would sit on the sofa, awaiting the tragedy
of the day
like the dog-eared page
in the bathroom Reader’s Digest.
I’d tell you the tale directly from the tarot cards
that I thought spelled out my fate
as I flipped them over and over in my brain.
My psycho-astrology was fucked.
I’m a red beret lunatic born on a cursed day: November 3
when death has lost it’s novelty
there are no daisies in my eye sockets
and my candy skull dissolved in the rain.
There are no saints on my playing cards
I no longer fish for Saint Anthony
when I lose my keys.
You nod at my metaphors as you stir the macaroni,
the gypsy punk at the antique stove.
I’ve been comfortable staying in your film noir hotel
where it is all black curtains and red scarves
over white paper lamps.
Photographs of inky women with skin like paper
beauty is all chemical
all grayscale.
Lately you don’t mind my lack of scandal.
Everyone needs the neutral poet who only makes love
to her green desk lamp.
Hold the umbrella, amigo.
It’s been raining all morning.
Friday, July 4, 2008
matchmaker--7/2
Matchmaker
Why don't you walk in at about 1 a.m?
Make me be patient
as if you had just fucked your malnourished girlfriend
and decided to stop in for whatever is on tap.
I'll sip my wine, noticing you
wishing I hadn't,
covering up my one night stands like nip slips
or bruises.
You won't notice me, of course
and I'll pretend you're not there
as some Ringo Starr lookalike gropes my thigh.
Our first date
will make me wish I hadn't been one of those girls
who grew up equating Disney princesses
to my future self
(I was Belle: bookish brunette with green eyes)
but I'd never work a tiara
and I always end up passing out on my shawl
two hours before the ball ends.
That teapot should have never suggested an open bar.
You'll laugh at that
and I'll wish I hadn't noticed your smile
or that there is no malnourished girlfriend.
"anorexics never have nice tits anyway" you'll say
and I'll pretend I'm not completely swelling
like the hot air balloon in the guidance counselor's office.
Why don't you walk in at about 1 a.m?
Make me be patient
as if you had just fucked your malnourished girlfriend
and decided to stop in for whatever is on tap.
I'll sip my wine, noticing you
wishing I hadn't,
covering up my one night stands like nip slips
or bruises.
You won't notice me, of course
and I'll pretend you're not there
as some Ringo Starr lookalike gropes my thigh.
Our first date
will make me wish I hadn't been one of those girls
who grew up equating Disney princesses
to my future self
(I was Belle: bookish brunette with green eyes)
but I'd never work a tiara
and I always end up passing out on my shawl
two hours before the ball ends.
That teapot should have never suggested an open bar.
You'll laugh at that
and I'll wish I hadn't noticed your smile
or that there is no malnourished girlfriend.
"anorexics never have nice tits anyway" you'll say
and I'll pretend I'm not completely swelling
like the hot air balloon in the guidance counselor's office.
vintage--7/2
Vintage
Darling, you've got infatuation
written all over you.
Why don't you play the innocent yuppie
and I'll be the creepy neighbor.
You play the brooding artist
and I'll play the nerdy underclassman.
Darling, you are too cool for school.
You scream vintage t-shirts and bands I've never heard of.
Like every other modern boy
you'll make me do all the work.
Times are changing,
so girls like me get laid
once in awhile.
Darling, isn't it funny
that you lasted as long as a pack of cigarettes?
You stamped out the law of attraction
when I burned it right down the label.
Lucky Strike
doesn't live up to it's name.
You can't find that shit around here.
Darling, you've got infatuation
written all over you.
Why don't you play the innocent yuppie
and I'll be the creepy neighbor.
You play the brooding artist
and I'll play the nerdy underclassman.
Darling, you are too cool for school.
You scream vintage t-shirts and bands I've never heard of.
Like every other modern boy
you'll make me do all the work.
Times are changing,
so girls like me get laid
once in awhile.
Darling, isn't it funny
that you lasted as long as a pack of cigarettes?
You stamped out the law of attraction
when I burned it right down the label.
Lucky Strike
doesn't live up to it's name.
You can't find that shit around here.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
fidget--7/2
Fidget
I went out on a limb (as it is
always dangerous to do)
and nearly broke my neck.
There were no birds on the canopy
of that same oak I've climbed over and over again
no promises from the robin of springtime
and certainly no bluebird of happiness
(the birds had flown)
so I just fell
with no idea
how I'd catch myself.
No one hears of thsoe near-death experiences
where there is no light at the end
no wedding gowns or quiet bedside lamps
just a darkness black as licorice
and just as bitter.
An eternity of damp basements full of sweating bodies
dancing under a shit-ton of asbestos,
and you're the only one standing by yourself
They'll hold out their tongues to catch the snow
and you're the only one who knows
this is no acid trip,
no French absinthe.
Try living your life being sure of nothing
except the fact that you'll grow old
and accessorize as you always have:
with a bottle of pills and a sloppy notebook.
Try being the only one to know
that love is just a hologram carrot
and you're still one of the stupid mules chasing after it.
Try waking up in the kind of sweat
that you haven't felt since you were forced to attend church
each Wednesday night in Indian summer
that exact brand
of discomfort.
So you fidget.
Sit up straight in your bed
nothing green or pale or golden
will get you to sleep and wait until 4 a.m.
when the last thing you want to hear
is birds and how they call to morning
as if she's a centerfold.
I went out on a limb (as it is
always dangerous to do)
and nearly broke my neck.
There were no birds on the canopy
of that same oak I've climbed over and over again
no promises from the robin of springtime
and certainly no bluebird of happiness
(the birds had flown)
so I just fell
with no idea
how I'd catch myself.
No one hears of thsoe near-death experiences
where there is no light at the end
no wedding gowns or quiet bedside lamps
just a darkness black as licorice
and just as bitter.
An eternity of damp basements full of sweating bodies
dancing under a shit-ton of asbestos,
and you're the only one standing by yourself
They'll hold out their tongues to catch the snow
and you're the only one who knows
this is no acid trip,
no French absinthe.
Try living your life being sure of nothing
except the fact that you'll grow old
and accessorize as you always have:
with a bottle of pills and a sloppy notebook.
Try being the only one to know
that love is just a hologram carrot
and you're still one of the stupid mules chasing after it.
Try waking up in the kind of sweat
that you haven't felt since you were forced to attend church
each Wednesday night in Indian summer
that exact brand
of discomfort.
So you fidget.
Sit up straight in your bed
nothing green or pale or golden
will get you to sleep and wait until 4 a.m.
when the last thing you want to hear
is birds and how they call to morning
as if she's a centerfold.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Prospect Street--6/23
I always wanted to be a Tenenbaum.
-db
***
Prospect Street
It was a summer of olive pits
like those temporary lovers,
they would snap against my teeth until I spit them out.
I'm a modern child
I want things to come easily.
It was the summer he fell in love with a stray cat.
He carried his body to bed in the house
that made me believe I was my own character
in a story too lazy and beautiful to be true.
(If I was your daughter
maybe I wouldn't crave dairy so much
when I'm lonely.) I always pour a glass of milk
and wait for the phone to ring.
It was the summer when June smelled like burning kitchens,
marijuana, and blueberry pancakes.
The necessary things it took to mend my heart.
No doctors could help me find the pieces.
I just had to wait for them to scuttle back into place,
to wash in with the tide.
Thank god they never got woven too tightly
in the bluebird's nest.
I wanted to be their spinster sister
clutching her cameo, approving and disapproving
as she runs neon and naked through her own brain.
But I was just homeless, hopelessly lost
in borrowed and pinot noir
in mascara on the pillowcase.
It was the summer where days overlapped
like sand under the waves,
like glasses of tea being filled and refilled.
I would rise out of the water again and again
like a seal. My freckled nose
like the translucent fin of a bluegill.
The summer would pass in millions of colors,
but I couldn't choose one.
So I am just whitespace,
still it is undeniable:
I exist.
-db
***
Prospect Street
It was a summer of olive pits
like those temporary lovers,
they would snap against my teeth until I spit them out.
I'm a modern child
I want things to come easily.
It was the summer he fell in love with a stray cat.
He carried his body to bed in the house
that made me believe I was my own character
in a story too lazy and beautiful to be true.
(If I was your daughter
maybe I wouldn't crave dairy so much
when I'm lonely.) I always pour a glass of milk
and wait for the phone to ring.
It was the summer when June smelled like burning kitchens,
marijuana, and blueberry pancakes.
The necessary things it took to mend my heart.
No doctors could help me find the pieces.
I just had to wait for them to scuttle back into place,
to wash in with the tide.
Thank god they never got woven too tightly
in the bluebird's nest.
I wanted to be their spinster sister
clutching her cameo, approving and disapproving
as she runs neon and naked through her own brain.
But I was just homeless, hopelessly lost
in borrowed and pinot noir
in mascara on the pillowcase.
It was the summer where days overlapped
like sand under the waves,
like glasses of tea being filled and refilled.
I would rise out of the water again and again
like a seal. My freckled nose
like the translucent fin of a bluegill.
The summer would pass in millions of colors,
but I couldn't choose one.
So I am just whitespace,
still it is undeniable:
I exist.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Madame X--5/22
By John Singer Sargent
I think I understand how she feels.
Madame X
I can be a femme fatale for you
and abort my greens and blues for darker shades
if you can give up Cinderella for a few moments
for stranger companies in the linen closet.
Go ahead and tell me stories of your former lovers.
I've lost my taste for jealousy
and I've forgotten how to make dolls
of other girls.
I can make my eyelids film noir umbrellas
and you can climb underneath if you want
but I can't promise you won't feel the rain
now and then.
I can be a sexpot in a victorian city
as minimal as math, my skin full of forumlas
and under my veil you can see
the bobcat still slinking around inside me
appearing and reappearing
eating songbirds to survive
dont' bother to trap him
he's there for good.
Overexposure won't make me less of a woman
but don't be surprised
if it makes you less of a man.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Assia--5/17
A homage to Sylvia Plath regarding the woman who tore her and Ted Hughes apart. Greatly inspired by "The Rival". Don't know if it's publishable, but feedback is appreciated.
-db
******
Assia
You can blame my ghost all you want,
you moon-faced wretch.
You with pierced craters grated in with glassy stars.
You can dance in your veil and stroll around a prize or two
someday, a daughter
might be a decent consolation prize
confirmation, a wailing gold trophy.
In the sinister hour of 3 a.m. you’ll think of a past life
when you wore red wool coats
and spoke with an accent
and you’ll sweep it away in a weak little tide.
Nature moves in cycles
and you’re just the washing machine
he sits upon
waiting for the opportune moment
to reveal his transparencies
in a series of little papercuts
that he calls songs
that he calls poems
that we’re supposed to call art.
You can pretend your face isn’t changing
You can pollute the air with enough fake roses
and a perfume that calls you 'princess',
but my ink will stain everything you own.
-db
******
Assia
You can blame my ghost all you want,
you moon-faced wretch.
You with pierced craters grated in with glassy stars.
You can dance in your veil and stroll around a prize or two
someday, a daughter
might be a decent consolation prize
confirmation, a wailing gold trophy.
In the sinister hour of 3 a.m. you’ll think of a past life
when you wore red wool coats
and spoke with an accent
and you’ll sweep it away in a weak little tide.
Nature moves in cycles
and you’re just the washing machine
he sits upon
waiting for the opportune moment
to reveal his transparencies
in a series of little papercuts
that he calls songs
that he calls poems
that we’re supposed to call art.
You can pretend your face isn’t changing
You can pollute the air with enough fake roses
and a perfume that calls you 'princess',
but my ink will stain everything you own.
Bitch--5/17
Bitch
I want to pull you out of me like tape
from a cassette
and all your music will lie crumpled at my feet.
(There is too much
I have yet to erase.)
The town you live in
has all the flavor of cigarette paper
but instead of watching it burn
I chewed it up like bubblegum
(how many times
will I have to break my jaw over you?)
Spring never really came for you
unless you count that day you noticed the rings
in that glass case you call security
and sang Patsy Cline as you undid her bra.
(I can narrate the whole scene and yawn at the end
but I can’t be your suicide doll anymore.)
I can’t be the dog that lies her head on your knee
some bitch waiting to play fetch all day
in the sun-swallowed wheat fields
(oh, I can’t wait
to show you how much I don’t care.)
I have a secret that makes me claustrophobic
the ceiling is too low
and I feel like a deranged parakeet
gnawing at the bars of the cage.
I want to pull you out of me like tape
from a cassette
and all your music will lie crumpled at my feet.
(There is too much
I have yet to erase.)
The town you live in
has all the flavor of cigarette paper
but instead of watching it burn
I chewed it up like bubblegum
(how many times
will I have to break my jaw over you?)
Spring never really came for you
unless you count that day you noticed the rings
in that glass case you call security
and sang Patsy Cline as you undid her bra.
(I can narrate the whole scene and yawn at the end
but I can’t be your suicide doll anymore.)
I can’t be the dog that lies her head on your knee
some bitch waiting to play fetch all day
in the sun-swallowed wheat fields
(oh, I can’t wait
to show you how much I don’t care.)
I have a secret that makes me claustrophobic
the ceiling is too low
and I feel like a deranged parakeet
gnawing at the bars of the cage.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Gold---5/6
Gold
The camera flicked off
and I saw only my reflection
in the infra-red lens.
You had disappeared from behind me;
your resonance
laid like dead orange butterflies
on the asphalt
until a hot wind took it into the
enormous white silence of the sky.
The parade was over.
The ribbons hung in the trees
and the balloons floated across the lake
to meet at the island in the middle.
The bluebirds turned back into children
as if some curse had been lifted
and I saw things
not through the eyes of some hysterical muse
but through my own.
You said in some unfinished melody:
“There’s a hole in my heart where there will
always be a place for you.”
Now I’m sure I don’t want to live in a hole.
I’m looking for a whole heart to live in
and I promise to whomever is willing to let me rent the space
that I’ll paint the walls gold
and hang paper stars from the windows.
I’ll look out at the perfect rhythm of their organs
and feel safe as the wind chimes
sing along with their blood.
So while you claim a few highways as yours
and try to fill the hole I left open
with purple paint and cigarette ash;
while you throw pennies into goldfish ponds
wishing for a girl to write your songs for you,
while you stand in your glass box
whoring out gold rings and broken TVs,
while you’re swallowing the weather like cough syrup,
I’ll be busy letting birds out of cages and
calling love whatever I want to call it.
The camera flicked off
and I saw only my reflection
in the infra-red lens.
You had disappeared from behind me;
your resonance
laid like dead orange butterflies
on the asphalt
until a hot wind took it into the
enormous white silence of the sky.
The parade was over.
The ribbons hung in the trees
and the balloons floated across the lake
to meet at the island in the middle.
The bluebirds turned back into children
as if some curse had been lifted
and I saw things
not through the eyes of some hysterical muse
but through my own.
You said in some unfinished melody:
“There’s a hole in my heart where there will
always be a place for you.”
Now I’m sure I don’t want to live in a hole.
I’m looking for a whole heart to live in
and I promise to whomever is willing to let me rent the space
that I’ll paint the walls gold
and hang paper stars from the windows.
I’ll look out at the perfect rhythm of their organs
and feel safe as the wind chimes
sing along with their blood.
So while you claim a few highways as yours
and try to fill the hole I left open
with purple paint and cigarette ash;
while you throw pennies into goldfish ponds
wishing for a girl to write your songs for you,
while you stand in your glass box
whoring out gold rings and broken TVs,
while you’re swallowing the weather like cough syrup,
I’ll be busy letting birds out of cages and
calling love whatever I want to call it.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
holla at me.
I'm gonna be reading "Pills", "Filmstrip", and "Pinup" tonight at the open mic/poetry night at the Ames Progressive office. Come holla at ya girl (and other sweet local poets) if you happen to be in Ames at 'bout 8 with nothing to do and you happen to be wandering near 118 Hayward in the same building as the Scallion.
I promise you I'll shower and take my meds beforehand. I'll maybe even cover the giant zit that's forming on the side of my face.
Poets are just slightly above mimes on the list of most hated artists.
We're full of shit, but come anyway.
-d
I promise you I'll shower and take my meds beforehand. I'll maybe even cover the giant zit that's forming on the side of my face.
Poets are just slightly above mimes on the list of most hated artists.
We're full of shit, but come anyway.
-d
Friday, April 4, 2008
possible book idea in its infancy.
I'm going to start thinking seriously about self-publishing a bona-fide poetry book. Complete with images, if the person I want to help me with that is willing to comply...
Thinking of going through a self-publishing site, Lulu.com...I'm going to do some serious editing, designing the layout myself, and maybe setting up reading(s)/book signing(s).
The title: Dress Up Naked
Poems will include (not necessarily in this order or how they're appearing on the blog):
Pawn Shop Boy
Groceries
Addictee
Birth
Bluebird
Crocus (la petite mort)
Filmstrip
Pinup
Sunday Seance
Hexapus
Pills
Possibly including...
Hijack
Winter Room
Man in the Well
Thinking of going through a self-publishing site, Lulu.com...I'm going to do some serious editing, designing the layout myself, and maybe setting up reading(s)/book signing(s).
The title: Dress Up Naked
Poems will include (not necessarily in this order or how they're appearing on the blog):
Pawn Shop Boy
Groceries
Addictee
Birth
Bluebird
Crocus (la petite mort)
Filmstrip
Pinup
Sunday Seance
Hexapus
Pills
Possibly including...
Hijack
Winter Room
Man in the Well
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Pills--4/2
pill--noun
3. Slang. a tiresomely disagreeable person.
example: "Quit being such a pill, Jordan."
-me, a cold Sunday in late February, 2008.
db.
****************************************
Pills
I was your housewife shuffling through a Vicodin binge
yawning as she sauteed the mushrooms and peppers
and stirred the sighing pile of noodles.
(pop this pill, Mrs. Lonely, and your life will be
just like a movie.)
(I want my life to be
just like a movie.)
You were as white as asprin, unassuming.
You made my blood thin as a first communion veil
and I became transparent, every detail of my pulse revealed.
So when I came near you
a prick of a brooch pin could have made me bloom
a shocking, clumsy stain
enough to make the locker room girls blush.
You were a cornfield raver.
and she raced through your brain on a purple bicycle.
I tried to cut holes in her tires, but she had already
made enough neon paths to spell our her name:
Just as certain you would remember
as quickly as a hit of her blue and pink and green
catalyzed your brain into
yards of burning photographs
it was easy
it seemed so easy.
I tried to be your penicillin
your cure-all girl with yellow bruises on her wrists
but you shot up like a shell-shocked 'Nam vet.
The green in my eyes reminded you too much of the jungle
and how you wanted to lie buried as the forest floor
yielded to your body
punctured by organic poison.
Ever the homemaker, I lay twitching on the cold bathroom tiles
as the teapot screams in the kitchen.
3. Slang. a tiresomely disagreeable person.
example: "Quit being such a pill, Jordan."
-me, a cold Sunday in late February, 2008.
db.
****************************************
Pills
I was your housewife shuffling through a Vicodin binge
yawning as she sauteed the mushrooms and peppers
and stirred the sighing pile of noodles.
(pop this pill, Mrs. Lonely, and your life will be
just like a movie.)
(I want my life to be
just like a movie.)
You were as white as asprin, unassuming.
You made my blood thin as a first communion veil
and I became transparent, every detail of my pulse revealed.
So when I came near you
a prick of a brooch pin could have made me bloom
a shocking, clumsy stain
enough to make the locker room girls blush.
You were a cornfield raver.
and she raced through your brain on a purple bicycle.
I tried to cut holes in her tires, but she had already
made enough neon paths to spell our her name:
Just as certain you would remember
as quickly as a hit of her blue and pink and green
catalyzed your brain into
yards of burning photographs
it was easy
it seemed so easy.
I tried to be your penicillin
your cure-all girl with yellow bruises on her wrists
but you shot up like a shell-shocked 'Nam vet.
The green in my eyes reminded you too much of the jungle
and how you wanted to lie buried as the forest floor
yielded to your body
punctured by organic poison.
Ever the homemaker, I lay twitching on the cold bathroom tiles
as the teapot screams in the kitchen.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Smear--3/31
Smear
I have been reduced
to a red smear.
Someone
clean me up.
I have to be something more
than a dirty word written on the bathroom wall.
I have to be something more
than a constantly spinning rumor mill
cutting through the continuous flow.
I tried to kill my doppelganger
but she ran wild through the woods
with a dead woman's words written across her breasts
and I ran headlong into a tree
trying to find out where the ghost had flown.
I have to be something more
than a brunette shadow.
I have to be something more
than a caricature with a Marilyn Monroe waist
and a heart I can't cough out of my throat.
Reduce me all you need to
because I am content being shrunk.
Yes, girls, I am made of plastic wrap
but I only have one face
and the jar I’ve kept it in has been empty for years.
Take a scan of my brain
but it will look nothing like my heart.
I have been reduced
to a red smear.
Someone
clean me up.
I have to be something more
than a dirty word written on the bathroom wall.
I have to be something more
than a constantly spinning rumor mill
cutting through the continuous flow.
I tried to kill my doppelganger
but she ran wild through the woods
with a dead woman's words written across her breasts
and I ran headlong into a tree
trying to find out where the ghost had flown.
I have to be something more
than a brunette shadow.
I have to be something more
than a caricature with a Marilyn Monroe waist
and a heart I can't cough out of my throat.
Reduce me all you need to
because I am content being shrunk.
Yes, girls, I am made of plastic wrap
but I only have one face
and the jar I’ve kept it in has been empty for years.
Take a scan of my brain
but it will look nothing like my heart.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Dear Abby--3/25
A response to a poem my friend Dave wrote about his ex girlfriend. This is what I thought might have been going through her mind. I'm projecting, maybe?
-d.
************************************
Dear Abby
Your brain hums as her moans
are buffering.
I can hear it at 3:12 in the morning
and I crack and sizzle like a fried egg.
This time, though,
I'm not making your breakfast in bed.
You're a romantic comedy from the 80's
and our banter pricks me like shots of glucose.
You're Woody fucking Allen
but I'll never have Scarlett Johansson's tits
so I don't expect much from you.
I chose to talk to you on a day
when I felt like drowning in my own air.
You haven't helped revive me since
not with cheap beer
or chocolate cake
or stupid sex games you thought would make me laugh.
(if I fall in love with anyone
it's not going to be you)
You spit charisma like used toothpaste
and make your teeth white as MTV.
I hated them like a glare on the television.
When I told you this, you looked at me the same way
as you did when I made you apologize for being in shape.
So I hid under your pillow
like your dad's old Playboy
and when I climbed out
your didn't mind being revealed.
I just wanted you to tuck me back in
but you just continued to hum.
Then when I saw your eyes were full of static
I pushed the elevator button
and watch the concrete rush up to meet me.
-d.
************************************
Dear Abby
Your brain hums as her moans
are buffering.
I can hear it at 3:12 in the morning
and I crack and sizzle like a fried egg.
This time, though,
I'm not making your breakfast in bed.
You're a romantic comedy from the 80's
and our banter pricks me like shots of glucose.
You're Woody fucking Allen
but I'll never have Scarlett Johansson's tits
so I don't expect much from you.
I chose to talk to you on a day
when I felt like drowning in my own air.
You haven't helped revive me since
not with cheap beer
or chocolate cake
or stupid sex games you thought would make me laugh.
(if I fall in love with anyone
it's not going to be you)
You spit charisma like used toothpaste
and make your teeth white as MTV.
I hated them like a glare on the television.
When I told you this, you looked at me the same way
as you did when I made you apologize for being in shape.
So I hid under your pillow
like your dad's old Playboy
and when I climbed out
your didn't mind being revealed.
I just wanted you to tuck me back in
but you just continued to hum.
Then when I saw your eyes were full of static
I pushed the elevator button
and watch the concrete rush up to meet me.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Man in the Well--3/20
Man in the Well
I must have mistook you for a wishing well
but it turns out you were only a speakerbox
hidden in a clearing of the winter trees.
I must have stumbled on your stones
as I walked madly around the square
trying to conjure tulips.
I spoke into you, but you only replied
"What's your name?"
When I would not tell you,
you clicked on some switch or other
and a woman's sigh oozed out of you
and onto me.
I tried to clean it out from under my nails
but the humiliating pink still sticks in the crooks of my hands.
(I had no choice but to fall in completely.)
My sisters came to pull me from the well
tying stylish scarves and belts together
and I emerged wailing
plucking minnows off my skin.
They bathed me in a hot blue aquarium
and filled my heartspace with yellow fishes
but it was too late
I was already belly up.
They spoke into you
to find out where I had been
and man in the box only replied,
"What's your name?"
I haven't been the same since
with my propaganda cartoon nose
and my Venus di Milo torso.
Some call me a miracle
but I miss my arms sometimes.
They are writing my biography and making a film
based on the questions they couldn't answer
still I must continue to introduce myself
to the man in the box.
(what's your name, girl?
what's your name?)
I must have mistook you for a wishing well
but it turns out you were only a speakerbox
hidden in a clearing of the winter trees.
I must have stumbled on your stones
as I walked madly around the square
trying to conjure tulips.
I spoke into you, but you only replied
"What's your name?"
When I would not tell you,
you clicked on some switch or other
and a woman's sigh oozed out of you
and onto me.
I tried to clean it out from under my nails
but the humiliating pink still sticks in the crooks of my hands.
(I had no choice but to fall in completely.)
My sisters came to pull me from the well
tying stylish scarves and belts together
and I emerged wailing
plucking minnows off my skin.
They bathed me in a hot blue aquarium
and filled my heartspace with yellow fishes
but it was too late
I was already belly up.
They spoke into you
to find out where I had been
and man in the box only replied,
"What's your name?"
I haven't been the same since
with my propaganda cartoon nose
and my Venus di Milo torso.
Some call me a miracle
but I miss my arms sometimes.
They are writing my biography and making a film
based on the questions they couldn't answer
still I must continue to introduce myself
to the man in the box.
(what's your name, girl?
what's your name?)
Friday, March 21, 2008
random prose...don't know what this will turn into
My name is Eleanor, but you won’t remember me.
I’ve come to realize this long ago, back in the small town that wore the paper mask of a city, situated neatly between the yawning green cornfields and the lonely city of Des Moines (da-Moyn…let’s not be stupid), plump and black in the middle of the country. I can’t imagine what it would have been like when Kerouac rambled through, and how he happened upon the very spot where his Benzedrine-addled brain must have thought that here, in this imitation city, are the most beautiful girls in the world.
Though a few men and women swept back my bangs and told me I was one of them, I never believed her or anyone else. Even while in therapy when I made my false declarations of self-esteem, everyone knew: I was nothing special.
I realized early on that I was incapable of being loved. I attributed it to being a writer. Of all artists, writers are the least likely to be loved. Artists can draw or paint you a picture. Musicians can write you a song. Writers can tear their heart out and throw it red and gasping at your feet and you won’t understand why.
You’ve forgotten it already. That’s okay.
It’s Eleanor.
Eleanor.
Eleanor.
Come see me tonight.
I’ve come to realize this long ago, back in the small town that wore the paper mask of a city, situated neatly between the yawning green cornfields and the lonely city of Des Moines (da-Moyn…let’s not be stupid), plump and black in the middle of the country. I can’t imagine what it would have been like when Kerouac rambled through, and how he happened upon the very spot where his Benzedrine-addled brain must have thought that here, in this imitation city, are the most beautiful girls in the world.
Though a few men and women swept back my bangs and told me I was one of them, I never believed her or anyone else. Even while in therapy when I made my false declarations of self-esteem, everyone knew: I was nothing special.
I realized early on that I was incapable of being loved. I attributed it to being a writer. Of all artists, writers are the least likely to be loved. Artists can draw or paint you a picture. Musicians can write you a song. Writers can tear their heart out and throw it red and gasping at your feet and you won’t understand why.
You’ve forgotten it already. That’s okay.
It’s Eleanor.
Eleanor.
Eleanor.
Come see me tonight.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Hexapus--3/4
A six-legged octopus was discovered in a lobster box. I wrote a poem about it.
--db.
Hexapus
She said I was lovely
and they took black and white photos
as if I were microscopic.
They watched my limbs curl
as I clung to you as if you were glass.
But there were some things
I was missing.
When they found me
my glossy pink body was squirming in the lobster box
grasping for your shifting surface.
I am not at home here.
I am a scientific marvel; a transparent cloud of mania.
The scientests gather, shoving each other
harpooning me with compliments.
Still, I'm sure there's something
I am missing.
Blue blood and black ink
shifts through my veins.
Four hearts still intact after my fifth dissolved
leaving only a chalk outline
where my body used to lie.
You let me know, despite my luminescence
that there is something I am missing.
Make me a bicycle with six golden pedals
and I will make trails across the floor of the sea.
--db.
Hexapus
She said I was lovely
and they took black and white photos
as if I were microscopic.
They watched my limbs curl
as I clung to you as if you were glass.
But there were some things
I was missing.
When they found me
my glossy pink body was squirming in the lobster box
grasping for your shifting surface.
I am not at home here.
I am a scientific marvel; a transparent cloud of mania.
The scientests gather, shoving each other
harpooning me with compliments.
Still, I'm sure there's something
I am missing.
Blue blood and black ink
shifts through my veins.
Four hearts still intact after my fifth dissolved
leaving only a chalk outline
where my body used to lie.
You let me know, despite my luminescence
that there is something I am missing.
Make me a bicycle with six golden pedals
and I will make trails across the floor of the sea.
Sunday Seance--2/26
Loving you
is like living in a house full of ghosts.
I've met at least three
at one time or another.
The first was a familiar one.
I'd met her before, even
offered her metaphysical tea.
The second was nonthreatening.
She was as round-faced as a birthday cake.
I laughed at her; you scolded me
for mocking the dead.
The third tugged at my hair
because she must have thought it was hers.
Her invisible hands clench around my throat
even after the fact.
She danced an icy waltz up my spine.
The jewelry box opened and shut
and the ballerina climbed out.
She spun on your knee and you kissed her painted lips.
I closed my eyes, ready
to vanish.
is like living in a house full of ghosts.
I've met at least three
at one time or another.
The first was a familiar one.
I'd met her before, even
offered her metaphysical tea.
The second was nonthreatening.
She was as round-faced as a birthday cake.
I laughed at her; you scolded me
for mocking the dead.
The third tugged at my hair
because she must have thought it was hers.
Her invisible hands clench around my throat
even after the fact.
She danced an icy waltz up my spine.
The jewelry box opened and shut
and the ballerina climbed out.
She spun on your knee and you kissed her painted lips.
I closed my eyes, ready
to vanish.
Pinup (don't remember the date...sometime in february)
I never found much merit in being secretive about my personal life. I don't think any good writers are.
This one is interesting because it was written out of frustration that I couldn't help someone and ended being written out of frustration with being betrayed.
One of the most painful pieces I've written.
-db
***
Pinup
Dear Inner Child,
If you want, in this poem,
I can call you an acid-tongued faerie
or a pinup girl for the damned.
(I knew you’d like that)
I am the yellow lenses in your sunshine glasses.
I am the seashell ashtray that rests on your chest
always knocked underneath your bed.
My lips will turn to ash
and you’ll kiss the carpet with dry heaves.
If you want,
I’ll help you eat those brownies we made.
I am the sprinkles
that you brush off the skinny jeans you bought
because you thought they made your ankles look thin.
So proud
you tally every intervention
laughing with the screeching chalk.
If you want,
I’ll watch the cyborg boy eat you
with his metal lips clutching you like prey
with eight spider-fingers and industrial teeth.
I’ll watch him devour you quickly,
like a praying mantis.
I will be silent
because I am just a picture you’ve taken
and shoved behind a pane of glass.
I will wrap my face in duct tape
if you’d have it that way
because I can’t spend another night
watching you drink from Wonderland bottles
waiting for the poisonous taste
of your kind of love.
So, I gave it to you.
He covered you in bluebird feathers
and his music filled your mouth.
In the end, though,
even after you lay on my side of the bed
even after you tore up the days of winter
on which I scribbled furiously,
the next month will come
with a new cover girl crawling out of the mailbox.
And you, suicide girl, you will find yourself
where you gave birth
among the discarded.
This one is interesting because it was written out of frustration that I couldn't help someone and ended being written out of frustration with being betrayed.
One of the most painful pieces I've written.
-db
***
Pinup
Dear Inner Child,
If you want, in this poem,
I can call you an acid-tongued faerie
or a pinup girl for the damned.
(I knew you’d like that)
I am the yellow lenses in your sunshine glasses.
I am the seashell ashtray that rests on your chest
always knocked underneath your bed.
My lips will turn to ash
and you’ll kiss the carpet with dry heaves.
If you want,
I’ll help you eat those brownies we made.
I am the sprinkles
that you brush off the skinny jeans you bought
because you thought they made your ankles look thin.
So proud
you tally every intervention
laughing with the screeching chalk.
If you want,
I’ll watch the cyborg boy eat you
with his metal lips clutching you like prey
with eight spider-fingers and industrial teeth.
I’ll watch him devour you quickly,
like a praying mantis.
I will be silent
because I am just a picture you’ve taken
and shoved behind a pane of glass.
I will wrap my face in duct tape
if you’d have it that way
because I can’t spend another night
watching you drink from Wonderland bottles
waiting for the poisonous taste
of your kind of love.
So, I gave it to you.
He covered you in bluebird feathers
and his music filled your mouth.
In the end, though,
even after you lay on my side of the bed
even after you tore up the days of winter
on which I scribbled furiously,
the next month will come
with a new cover girl crawling out of the mailbox.
And you, suicide girl, you will find yourself
where you gave birth
among the discarded.
Monday, February 25, 2008
2/25---Hijack
Hijack
The bluebird springs out of the black forest clock
singing and ode to 4 a.m.
I make myself dry toast and topple out of his apartment
like a door off its hinges.
all before my early flight.
I wait for your announcement
and I realize
I am too real to be a ghost.
So I don’t fasten my safety belt.
I won’t be needing it.
I have no envelopes full of death-powder.
No digital bombs.
There are no mug shots of girls with icy eyes
they all have eyes like mine:
red: the negative.
Pilot, from beyond the silk curtain,
I watch you switch buttons on and off,
pull chords and plug others in with a sigh.
Soaring with all the calmness
of a doctor before a tumor of mourners.
You gave me a complimentary pin,
your aviator for a day.
I stuck my thumb
and I gasped at my own clumsiness,
my own swamp-child hair
and once you realized who I was
I took hold.
We crashed, of course
and from under the wing, I watched
the survivors slide down onto the glittery Vegas strip
and you, mon capitan,
shook your head and rolled over.
The bluebird springs out of the black forest clock
singing and ode to 4 a.m.
I make myself dry toast and topple out of his apartment
like a door off its hinges.
all before my early flight.
I wait for your announcement
and I realize
I am too real to be a ghost.
So I don’t fasten my safety belt.
I won’t be needing it.
I have no envelopes full of death-powder.
No digital bombs.
There are no mug shots of girls with icy eyes
they all have eyes like mine:
red: the negative.
Pilot, from beyond the silk curtain,
I watch you switch buttons on and off,
pull chords and plug others in with a sigh.
Soaring with all the calmness
of a doctor before a tumor of mourners.
You gave me a complimentary pin,
your aviator for a day.
I stuck my thumb
and I gasped at my own clumsiness,
my own swamp-child hair
and once you realized who I was
I took hold.
We crashed, of course
and from under the wing, I watched
the survivors slide down onto the glittery Vegas strip
and you, mon capitan,
shook your head and rolled over.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Hey Karl---2/13
Today, I am an angry socialist bitch.
--db.
***************************************
Hey Karl
Karl Marx, I'm beginning to feel
the metaphorical sickle and hammer
get tattooed on my forehead
as I stand in line at the finiancial aid office.
I chose to be a scavenger,
keying Hummers and fucking lawyer's kids.
WATCH OUT!
I'm coming for your sons
and for days, all you'll see is me outside your bay windows
waving a red flag,
wearing your wife's discarded Lacoste polo.
You can't miss me if you tried.
It's after work, I count my tips
as the radio puts it's tongue in my ear.
No one can escape the weasels
that sneak in through the television set
attacking our faces,
leaving numbers bleeding from our eyes and mouths.
Sister Capitalist is a high-class whore
she gives us another set of eyes, cheap
cellophane 3D glasses
to humiliate the proletariat.
She tucks us in
and sings us a lullaby of 800 numbers.
Everything is
as it is meant to be.
--db.
***************************************
Hey Karl
Karl Marx, I'm beginning to feel
the metaphorical sickle and hammer
get tattooed on my forehead
as I stand in line at the finiancial aid office.
I chose to be a scavenger,
keying Hummers and fucking lawyer's kids.
WATCH OUT!
I'm coming for your sons
and for days, all you'll see is me outside your bay windows
waving a red flag,
wearing your wife's discarded Lacoste polo.
You can't miss me if you tried.
It's after work, I count my tips
as the radio puts it's tongue in my ear.
No one can escape the weasels
that sneak in through the television set
attacking our faces,
leaving numbers bleeding from our eyes and mouths.
Sister Capitalist is a high-class whore
she gives us another set of eyes, cheap
cellophane 3D glasses
to humiliate the proletariat.
She tucks us in
and sings us a lullaby of 800 numbers.
Everything is
as it is meant to be.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Chipmunks--1/22, edited 2/12
Another excerise from CW poetry about a childhood experience.
-db
*********************************
Chipmunks
I woke with a purpose in the room with the slanted floor
in that house where my tiny body would stir
6 years old
6 a.m.
(early bird) my father’s daughter.
Like a canary I would hop downstairs
hopping over sleeping cousins
and across the cold tiles of the kitchen
taking a handful of peanuts from the green glass antique jar
like alms to feed those whom I loved.
scratchscratchscratch
against the concrete (like mother said)
and they would run to me like devotees to the child-god.
They were bold, climbing my church clothing room slipper.
Little bandits, Russian spies
complete with masks and fur coats.
The rain would cling to the spiderwebs
as the springs would plan their next attack
on which foundation they would choose to crumble.
Of course, nature quietly came to claim it
My mother cried with grandma’s peonies
drooping their heavy bouffants
like southern belles in mourning.
My two aunts and five uncles paraded through,
taking bits and pieces; relics.
The glass bottles dusty on the windwsill, sweatshirts with bottle rocket holes,
the afghans and paintings my mother had done in high school.
The gauzy pink curtains floating in the bedroom
where my grandparents must have kissed.
At eighteen, I returned to the porch
And scratched a peanut against the concrete
The grass had choked all but a few peonies
and my cousins had swallowed pills and swelled with pregnancies
the youngest tipping back tequila at age sixteen.
The chipmunks hid, settling for acorns.
-db
*********************************
Chipmunks
I woke with a purpose in the room with the slanted floor
in that house where my tiny body would stir
6 years old
6 a.m.
(early bird) my father’s daughter.
Like a canary I would hop downstairs
hopping over sleeping cousins
and across the cold tiles of the kitchen
taking a handful of peanuts from the green glass antique jar
like alms to feed those whom I loved.
scratchscratchscratch
against the concrete (like mother said)
and they would run to me like devotees to the child-god.
They were bold, climbing my church clothing room slipper.
Little bandits, Russian spies
complete with masks and fur coats.
The rain would cling to the spiderwebs
as the springs would plan their next attack
on which foundation they would choose to crumble.
Of course, nature quietly came to claim it
My mother cried with grandma’s peonies
drooping their heavy bouffants
like southern belles in mourning.
My two aunts and five uncles paraded through,
taking bits and pieces; relics.
The glass bottles dusty on the windwsill, sweatshirts with bottle rocket holes,
the afghans and paintings my mother had done in high school.
The gauzy pink curtains floating in the bedroom
where my grandparents must have kissed.
At eighteen, I returned to the porch
And scratched a peanut against the concrete
The grass had choked all but a few peonies
and my cousins had swallowed pills and swelled with pregnancies
the youngest tipping back tequila at age sixteen.
The chipmunks hid, settling for acorns.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Birth---2/7
Birth
I used to think I was some sort of heroine.
My footsoles stealing down the alleyways, my red hat
fixed like a dreamcatcher.
I thought I was some extension of god
like a bud from a spiritual sponge.
That was before I sat in your bathroom at 3 am.
an oracle folded up on her knees
and met the ghost in your bathtub
the woman you tried to drown over and over
whose blue eyes your fingers tried to close
but they snapped up again and again.
Now toothbrushes fly
and lights flicker
I leave when she asks.
I know her name, but I'm not stupid enough to call it into the mirror.
She sleeps in each lobe of your brain.
A new one every night
twenty identical bedroom sets
twenty identical shadeless lamps
twenty identical portraits
one dancing ballerina in the jewelry box.
I thought I was some sort of exorcist
but the only thing I set free
was a premature i-love-you.
Dead on arrival, I let it squirm
and you stared at it's oddity
as it lay in the incubation box.
Full of tubes and sacks of blood.
But I am not it's mother.
You are.
I used to think I was some sort of heroine.
My footsoles stealing down the alleyways, my red hat
fixed like a dreamcatcher.
I thought I was some extension of god
like a bud from a spiritual sponge.
That was before I sat in your bathroom at 3 am.
an oracle folded up on her knees
and met the ghost in your bathtub
the woman you tried to drown over and over
whose blue eyes your fingers tried to close
but they snapped up again and again.
Now toothbrushes fly
and lights flicker
I leave when she asks.
I know her name, but I'm not stupid enough to call it into the mirror.
She sleeps in each lobe of your brain.
A new one every night
twenty identical bedroom sets
twenty identical shadeless lamps
twenty identical portraits
one dancing ballerina in the jewelry box.
I thought I was some sort of exorcist
but the only thing I set free
was a premature i-love-you.
Dead on arrival, I let it squirm
and you stared at it's oddity
as it lay in the incubation box.
Full of tubes and sacks of blood.
But I am not it's mother.
You are.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
bullshit atcha.
There comes a time in every writer's life when they realize that poetry is bullshit. It will never be widely read, and they're never going to reach people.
What's more devastating is that, if we're true poets, we can't help but continue anyway.
What's more devastating is that, if we're true poets, we can't help but continue anyway.
Monday, February 4, 2008
filmstrip--1/30
Filmstrip
Come on in, you may as well
take off your shoes
your shirt
your watch.
You may as well stand naked with me
and we will sing songs into ourselves
you set the tone low with your tongue.
And plunge me down when I try it uptempo.
You remember.
You found me rolled up in a dusty trunk.
You held me up to the light and I held you up
so that my skin could strip you.
Through cellophane eyes
I watched you decode yourself.
Today I was vaccuming in my silk skeleton clothes
fixing my hair as I dusted the furniature
set the roast in the oven
applied morning glory mascara
and waited.
But you had them made,
each a completely different card in the same deck.
Collect them all.
You love it when I sleep alone
because you can line them up outside your closet.
That way,
you can show me how much you don't care.
Come on in, you may as well
take off your shoes
your shirt
your watch.
You may as well stand naked with me
and we will sing songs into ourselves
you set the tone low with your tongue.
And plunge me down when I try it uptempo.
You remember.
You found me rolled up in a dusty trunk.
You held me up to the light and I held you up
so that my skin could strip you.
Through cellophane eyes
I watched you decode yourself.
Today I was vaccuming in my silk skeleton clothes
fixing my hair as I dusted the furniature
set the roast in the oven
applied morning glory mascara
and waited.
But you had them made,
each a completely different card in the same deck.
Collect them all.
You love it when I sleep alone
because you can line them up outside your closet.
That way,
you can show me how much you don't care.
Crocus (la petite mort)--2/2
I thought
"Fuck winter"
and chewed my way through the soil.
With soft green fingers I clawed myself through the frost.
You must have been shocked
seeing me, a purple bell
that tolls for everyone
everything
that flashes through you, a shock that pulled you to the floor
in a manic fit of god.
We could have been a couple of marble-faced saints
getting shit on by pidgeons.
Your childhood blanket over our faces.
Religion meant to choke us
castrate you
make a blank page of me.
But when the Holy Ghost couldn't make me come,
you did.
You're the sort of man
who will crush windows with his fist in the name of another woman
and come to me to pull out the shards.
You live for a little death:
that warehouse roof teeter.
that ex lover's scarf in a knot.
the vibrations on the surface of your tongue
when you know you've tasted something you can't explain.
"Fuck winter"
and chewed my way through the soil.
With soft green fingers I clawed myself through the frost.
You must have been shocked
seeing me, a purple bell
that tolls for everyone
everything
that flashes through you, a shock that pulled you to the floor
in a manic fit of god.
We could have been a couple of marble-faced saints
getting shit on by pidgeons.
Your childhood blanket over our faces.
Religion meant to choke us
castrate you
make a blank page of me.
But when the Holy Ghost couldn't make me come,
you did.
You're the sort of man
who will crush windows with his fist in the name of another woman
and come to me to pull out the shards.
You live for a little death:
that warehouse roof teeter.
that ex lover's scarf in a knot.
the vibrations on the surface of your tongue
when you know you've tasted something you can't explain.
another assignment from 406: Chateau Ghetto---1/31
Chateau Ghetto
Low rent halo of celestial desperation
spins kalediscopic
around the Aqua-Net heads of the whores
in their moldy furs and bubblegum machine bodies.
The ducks that float in the clear heels
as she shakes back tears
barrel o’ monkeys.
A baby is hungry and everyone, even
the silver spoon fetuses
hear it wail and twist like an ant
under a magnifying glass
and curl up like snaky fireworks.
It’s parent’s inject orgasms
because religion and summer camp rape
stole all the real ones.
In Juarez
an old woman’s eyes grow white.
Her head is a balloon in a dusty corner.
Jesus peppers haunt her card table.
The banker’s kids are speaking a language
that’s supposed to sound like heaven.
There are baby shoes on wires and buzzards
picking at a dog’s body.
And me, with my wings made of headlines
in my shoes made of payday loan forms.
Every time I speak, god’s word is
BUY BUY BUY!
SELL SELL SELL!
Low rent halo of celestial desperation
spins kalediscopic
around the Aqua-Net heads of the whores
in their moldy furs and bubblegum machine bodies.
The ducks that float in the clear heels
as she shakes back tears
barrel o’ monkeys.
A baby is hungry and everyone, even
the silver spoon fetuses
hear it wail and twist like an ant
under a magnifying glass
and curl up like snaky fireworks.
It’s parent’s inject orgasms
because religion and summer camp rape
stole all the real ones.
In Juarez
an old woman’s eyes grow white.
Her head is a balloon in a dusty corner.
Jesus peppers haunt her card table.
The banker’s kids are speaking a language
that’s supposed to sound like heaven.
There are baby shoes on wires and buzzards
picking at a dog’s body.
And me, with my wings made of headlines
in my shoes made of payday loan forms.
Every time I speak, god’s word is
BUY BUY BUY!
SELL SELL SELL!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
1/29--Bluebird
Bluebird
In spring I will take a polaroid of you in your t-shirt
and the bluebird will fly out from under your sleeve.
It came to you
before you had those restless nights
eyes wide was a cartoon cat,
thinking of the dampness of that tent
where she tore you apart like a bear
knocking over thermoses of hot chocolate
and cracking your camera lens.
Since then all the girls came in their blue veils
to plant land mines in your bruised body.
You had to etch it on to remember
when it flew in to meet you
at the farmhouse in muddy spring
while you rummaged through your father's records in the attic.
You said that you like the cold wind at your back,
that snowflakes were softer than babies' fingers
if you can stand facing the sky for awhile.
You can't get the sound of the violin out of your head
or the way she dresses like light catches the bottoms of CDs.
Spring has to come someday
after the sun fades the valentines on your windowsill
and the Christmas candy has gone stale.
I will arrive with it
bumming a ride on the thaw.
Unannounced,
subtle as a note in your pocket
a girl in a purple dress
a bird that does not sing.
It flies.
In spring I will take a polaroid of you in your t-shirt
and the bluebird will fly out from under your sleeve.
It came to you
before you had those restless nights
eyes wide was a cartoon cat,
thinking of the dampness of that tent
where she tore you apart like a bear
knocking over thermoses of hot chocolate
and cracking your camera lens.
Since then all the girls came in their blue veils
to plant land mines in your bruised body.
You had to etch it on to remember
when it flew in to meet you
at the farmhouse in muddy spring
while you rummaged through your father's records in the attic.
You said that you like the cold wind at your back,
that snowflakes were softer than babies' fingers
if you can stand facing the sky for awhile.
You can't get the sound of the violin out of your head
or the way she dresses like light catches the bottoms of CDs.
Spring has to come someday
after the sun fades the valentines on your windowsill
and the Christmas candy has gone stale.
I will arrive with it
bumming a ride on the thaw.
Unannounced,
subtle as a note in your pocket
a girl in a purple dress
a bird that does not sing.
It flies.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
very uncharacteristic song lyrics---1/27
Song lyrics I can't put to music because the only thing I can play is the tambourine.
And I need a boy vocalist.
Anyone?
db.
*******************************************************************************
Wednesday
(girl)
It was Wednesday and I was riding my bike to school
I thought awhile and realized
I only wanted you.
(boy)
Girl, I don’t want to break your heart, you shouldn’t be a fool.
So many boys must be falling for you
falling for you.
(girl)
I don’t care, just take my hand
(boy)
I’ll let you lead me up the stairs
(girl)
I’ll hide my love well enough
(boy)
you won’t have to
(both)
if you kiss me like you do.
(boy)
I’m glad to have you in my bed.
(girl)
I’m glad your songs are in my head.
(boy)
You're healing all this hurt
Let’s stay up all night
(girl)
I’m wearing your sweatshirt
and I feel alright.
(both)
I feel alright.
And I need a boy vocalist.
Anyone?
db.
*******************************************************************************
Wednesday
(girl)
It was Wednesday and I was riding my bike to school
I thought awhile and realized
I only wanted you.
(boy)
Girl, I don’t want to break your heart, you shouldn’t be a fool.
So many boys must be falling for you
falling for you.
(girl)
I don’t care, just take my hand
(boy)
I’ll let you lead me up the stairs
(girl)
I’ll hide my love well enough
(boy)
you won’t have to
(both)
if you kiss me like you do.
(boy)
I’m glad to have you in my bed.
(girl)
I’m glad your songs are in my head.
(boy)
You're healing all this hurt
Let’s stay up all night
(girl)
I’m wearing your sweatshirt
and I feel alright.
(both)
I feel alright.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
To A Tree Outside Ross Hall--1/24 (Ven's CW Poetry)
I wrote this for a poetry exercise today in Ven's poetry workshop. I sat on some cold concrete and stared at a tree for five minutes.
I think I like this class already. I like assignments like this, bizarre as they are.
I'll be posting some of my favorite exercises from the class, as much as Ven doesn't like prematurely published things. I made a couple random changes since I first jotted it down.
Enjoy the fruits of my frozen ass and open mind.
-d
*************************************
To A Tree Outside Ross Hall
O tree
Your sort of modesty frightens me;
The way you cling to your hair like Venus
quaking in her shell.
You are some sort of Godiva with your brown skeleton
holding on to your babies as they curl up.
O tree
in your concrete cape
where I sit discovering that maybe
you are more a woman than I.
In our sparse fall coats,
holding letters to a season we can't remember.
O tree
there is some sort of elegance
in your fingers, the way they hold your leaves
like the pages of a bible.
I want to lie a trash can next to you
and burn burn burn
until you start to glow.
I think I like this class already. I like assignments like this, bizarre as they are.
I'll be posting some of my favorite exercises from the class, as much as Ven doesn't like prematurely published things. I made a couple random changes since I first jotted it down.
Enjoy the fruits of my frozen ass and open mind.
-d
*************************************
To A Tree Outside Ross Hall
O tree
Your sort of modesty frightens me;
The way you cling to your hair like Venus
quaking in her shell.
You are some sort of Godiva with your brown skeleton
holding on to your babies as they curl up.
O tree
in your concrete cape
where I sit discovering that maybe
you are more a woman than I.
In our sparse fall coats,
holding letters to a season we can't remember.
O tree
there is some sort of elegance
in your fingers, the way they hold your leaves
like the pages of a bible.
I want to lie a trash can next to you
and burn burn burn
until you start to glow.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Addictee--1/22/08
Make no mistake. I chose you
because you seemed weak.
You were convinced you were old.
"There's a point," you said,
"when you can't go back."
When the rollercoaster takes it's fatal dive.
You've experimented,
you had been in these same gutters before.
Make no mistake. I chose you
because you were an artist.
(All of those assholes are the same.
So in love with themselves
that they must destroy their bodies
with women like me.)
Make no mistake. I chose you
because you seemed so fragile.
I knew that I could make you spin so fast that
your eyes would plunge forward
until you were forced to shut them.
Goodbye to the houses
where you'd kill the cockroaches
and inhale me.
Not sleeping for days, my perfume mingling
with the greasy wax paper.
Goodbye, my addict.
I would have made you gray
and brought out the color you were born to be.
You exhale the years I still had
and the sidewalk and the forest girls
and the lights which we made pregnant
each one trembling as I waited
in the alley behind the pawn shop.
In spring you will eat vegetables
and ride your bike everywhere
healthy.
So healthy.
because you seemed weak.
You were convinced you were old.
"There's a point," you said,
"when you can't go back."
When the rollercoaster takes it's fatal dive.
You've experimented,
you had been in these same gutters before.
Make no mistake. I chose you
because you were an artist.
(All of those assholes are the same.
So in love with themselves
that they must destroy their bodies
with women like me.)
Make no mistake. I chose you
because you seemed so fragile.
I knew that I could make you spin so fast that
your eyes would plunge forward
until you were forced to shut them.
Goodbye to the houses
where you'd kill the cockroaches
and inhale me.
Not sleeping for days, my perfume mingling
with the greasy wax paper.
Goodbye, my addict.
I would have made you gray
and brought out the color you were born to be.
You exhale the years I still had
and the sidewalk and the forest girls
and the lights which we made pregnant
each one trembling as I waited
in the alley behind the pawn shop.
In spring you will eat vegetables
and ride your bike everywhere
healthy.
So healthy.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Winter Room---1/16/08
Winter Room
You make me into gingerbread,
partaking of me when I'm raw
and I always take the same shape.
(You don't even bother to notice
the red icing.)
You're pouting into your beer as if it will respond
anything like I do.
To you I am concave
you think it's some miracle or other
when you know it's only science,
(evolutionary pity.)
I am making you my song on repeat
you swing violently back to the beginning
a backhand in the key of D
(slightly out of tune.)
If only I could reduce you
by taking your photograph
to blot you out
and reinterpret.
If only I could sanatize everything you've touched;
sew it up.
Still I wait for the change of seasons
for a thaw...
but you are winter
(cold son of a bitch)
You make me into gingerbread,
partaking of me when I'm raw
and I always take the same shape.
(You don't even bother to notice
the red icing.)
You're pouting into your beer as if it will respond
anything like I do.
To you I am concave
you think it's some miracle or other
when you know it's only science,
(evolutionary pity.)
I am making you my song on repeat
you swing violently back to the beginning
a backhand in the key of D
(slightly out of tune.)
If only I could reduce you
by taking your photograph
to blot you out
and reinterpret.
If only I could sanatize everything you've touched;
sew it up.
Still I wait for the change of seasons
for a thaw...
but you are winter
(cold son of a bitch)
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Spiders--1/7
Spiders
I've seen houses infested with spiders so small
that they hide underneath our eyelids
revealing themselves when we blink.
We can blame them for the numbers that tick through our dreams.
the scrolling stocks under our tv screens.
It's true that I love the enemy,
or a semblance of who you thought killed your husband,
ripped the stuffing from your son's teddy bear,
who left your gift wrapped in the junk drawer.
He is not a mirror image
not an altar made of shopping bags
and empty fry containers.
I want to take him to your churches,
down every corridor of cubicles
through every Alabama drive-through.
I would be called a whore
a traitor
an unbeliever
because I give you this.
Because I am choosing contrast over symmetry.
Because I have shed the spider's legs, I have
shaken off their skeletons.
Because I refuse to butter my bread in this house anymore.
Because I want to dream the same dream every night.
I've seen houses infested with spiders so small
that they hide underneath our eyelids
revealing themselves when we blink.
We can blame them for the numbers that tick through our dreams.
the scrolling stocks under our tv screens.
It's true that I love the enemy,
or a semblance of who you thought killed your husband,
ripped the stuffing from your son's teddy bear,
who left your gift wrapped in the junk drawer.
He is not a mirror image
not an altar made of shopping bags
and empty fry containers.
I want to take him to your churches,
down every corridor of cubicles
through every Alabama drive-through.
I would be called a whore
a traitor
an unbeliever
because I give you this.
Because I am choosing contrast over symmetry.
Because I have shed the spider's legs, I have
shaken off their skeletons.
Because I refuse to butter my bread in this house anymore.
Because I want to dream the same dream every night.
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