Take Two

Re-initiating this blog during my final exams was somewhat ill-advised.

Be back--for serious--next Wednesday.

december 3/4

To thrust all that life under your tongue! --
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.

--anne sexton, february 3 1964

december second

failing a rorschach test

inkblot?
               infection
inkblot?
               scar
inkblot?
               orifice
inkblot?
                birthmark

[
don't be so literal
             /   but paper is literary!

project, don't empathize
            /     but it is a body, treat it as body
]

inkblot?

                  a golem: animate made of inanimate,
                  subservient and shapeless, dumb husk .

may 21

the bouquet you received that morning
was my hand: the quiet webbing
between fingers soft as petals,
the gesture of bud to bloom
shy, and intimate, and approaching
something so far beyond itself--
asymptotic--but in the way that
a careful mathematician whispers it;
like a love song.

May 10

You know you are a writer
when everything else is a book.

may 5

i think that most people are afraid of the Big Death
but i am afraid of the tiny ones: the age maximum
for youth hostels / the missed opportunity to learn skiing /
the too-old-to-buy-a-new-pet because what if you die first?

April 29

love is angled so that the sun comes
and sometimes there is winter
but always there are angels

apRil (the mid)

the brain curdles in heat.
the bones dry easy.
it was not tough to imagine
the rough possibility
of unbecoming;
especially in summer,
when so many were
desperate to shed
their black cardigans

and smile, once, before
returning to the hard
science of being alive

April April April April April April April

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5640


Little funerals

Are barrow-sad like white sap
that trickles down cut bark.
The honey that life lurches
and reveals when it is wrong.

Are thin, narrow; smell of just-dead.
I met a kind of sharp freshness
that took years to wash off
when I threw these roses into
your eternal bathtub.  I 
showered you with dirt because
you were old and needed it.
Others helped.
Somehow you were Real Clean
and I was covered in this
persistent face paint, toxic
and contrived, oil-based like
the coats of many living things.

I rubbed myself raw and bare
in search of the Real Layer
for years before
I understood. Being alive
is a dirty thing: like murals,
like clothing, like gardens.

Aprils 5-8

This particular breed of anxiety
starts at the toes where it clenches
inward like a dry pinecone, rambles up
along the spine; and settles on the peak
of the tongue like a sore stalactite
(that will not budge regardless of the
extent to which one shouts and swears)

aprile 4

i love that the place where tears come from is called a well,
as though people develop it to sustain themselves

avril 3

for a tattoo artist,
each piece is a mandela
and bodies are circles
and somewhere between
the color and the pattern
there is metamorphosis
and self fused with other

every month is poetry month (day 2)

there is a certain honeycomb in every
beehive in which disco plays all of the time
and all of the bees wear their fuzziest sweaters
and, in spite of the sweat, it always smells like daffodils

several march twenties

one year, i collected flowers
but the trick of it was that
they all had to be alive at the same
time to count as Part Of The Set,
but they needed cut stems as well
(so many rules) and so yes, they had
to be dying, but with the color and scent
of exhales, and the motivation
of industrious artists--somehow,
my collection consistently mattered;
i think because it was temporal and
tragic and had the assured destruction
of a mural, of a deep sea fisherman's net,
of a freshly knit pair of baby boots.

march twenty-first and twenty-second time

during suicide, the body tries
to escape. crumbles out little
tangible bits of self like fairytale
trails: blood, tissue, and bile. the body leaves
the soft taupe waiting room of the skin
when the doctor--the pulsing filter of the heart
like the routine scrawl of paperwork--
finally diagnoses,

stands, waltzes

out.

he is the problem; he is the disease.

almost-a-week-in-mid-march-time

one of my favorite things is that my kitten is discovering windows--
and I get to watch her do it, and I hope that it makes her happy
and not sad

march thirteenth fourteenth fifteen time

This is my medical record page 253

cracks and snaps like hideous
thrift store buttons: my wrist
thumbs and riddles about
like a rhythmless inebriate
clicking to the sore beat
of ineptitude; but seriously,
how much hurt is too much?

march thirteenth time

today's holiday is
if-the-world-were-made
-of-feathers day.

tomorrow is books-
on-your-head day.

and then?

march eleventh and twelfth times

Every time she clacked her tongue
a horse hoof did not hit the ground--
she stole the sound--the animal, short
one foot, cried... and stumbled forward
as it died!

march seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth time(s)

Best part about being an eyelid: for half of the day, you get to be completely immersed in dreams.

Worst part about being an eyelid: for the other half of the day, you are submerged in almost total darkness. You have moments of respite, but they are blurs of color and shape with very little tangible meaning.

march sixth time

laughing when you mean to cry might be the worst
possible thing. that nervous giggle indicating heart-
wrenching anxiety: eliciting that feeling that yes,
the being human thing, you are doing it wrong
(and perhaps you will always do it wrong)
(and it is conceivable that you have always
done it wrong)

(and the wrong inhabits your voice / your breath /
it sings during funerals and weeps during births

march fourth and fifth time

prediction of snow on a warm march night

When the sky is white like this,
it reminds me of calcium deposits
on fingernails. Someone has punched
the universe too hard, and its insides
are pouring out like impatient
spring flowers.

march second and third time

My number one goal right now is to sing in the shower more frequently.

This is not a poem, but this is a significant truth.

February twenty-eighth and march first time

at the nicest hotels,
room service menus
include what people
really want: pillow
fights, fort making,
marshmallows roasting
over a flame bubbling
enthusiastically with
agenda items. I cannot
imagine the bill, the staff,
or the length of stay--
I can only envision
this jubilant inner child and
a real possibility of escape
within the system; by the system.

february twenty-fifth, twenty-sixth, and twenty-seventh times

because when I overhear languages that I do not understand it often reminds me of poetry, I have to wonder if I intentionally choose obscure and oft-illogical images and symbols in my own writing because of this kind of... innate aversion to rational thought. or thought that is rational to me, anyway. that organized ideas are not musical because they are not syncopated, or something like that--that they just ring along, clear as bells (afraid to catch their own tongues)

february twenty-first, twenty-second, twenty-third, twenty-fourth time(s)

the hairy knees of ants
shudder in the pale
autumn wind. finally,
an idea: legwarmers.
they stumble, wobbling,
into the cupboard and
step gingerly into the
soft entrails of a moldy
bag of flour. their shins,
white as lilies, tremble
a little less. they are
grateful, and tired,
and stick out like
sore thumbs as they
trod home in perfect
rows through each
frosted tuft of grass.

february nineteenth and twentieth time

I cannot remember when the last time I saw a functioning gear was.

Why did I always hear "cogs and gears" stated when, really, cogs are part of gears? Cogs are what make gears gears.

Sometimes, the most simple things cease to make any sense at all.

February seventeenth and eighteenth time

The last rose standing in the garden is the most ugly, and the most beautiful. The most beautiful by default, the most ugly by design. Isn't that marvelous? Are people that way, sometimes? Do the lovely ones get picked off early by other Universes, by Death? Will Death come covered in the finest roses; thirsty for the wisdom and longevity of the deformed? Is it obvious if one is an early rose or a late rose? In this place, are infinity and infamy one and the same?

february thirteenth and fourteenth and fifteenth and sixteenth

I would like to build a bedroom made of moths--
moth pillows and moth armoires and moth dresses.
There would always be light, they are sometimes
of forensic importance, the colors would be rich
and soft, and forests would not grow amongst
the furniture. Moths often burrow into bark,
and they destroy crops such as wheat and corn.

It does not trouble me that they are not
butterflies--people who watch moths
are called 'mothers,' and that seems like
a noble enough pursuit.

february twelfth time

I went to the place where all the holidays are buried,
and I gave nothing, and I left full of poems.

February eleventh time

every art has a brother
who is notsobeautiful,
who is tradecraft,
who is crown molding,
who is the black paint
on the hearse.

February ninth (and tenth) time

for the first line of my résumé,
I glued the dirt in my fingernails
to the ivoryheavypage. I told
the man in the pinstripe suit
about washing dishes, about
sweeping, about praying.
the next line was blood
from a scratch I got riding
my bikewithoutbreaks.
the third, a tear stain
from watching my brother,
drenched with hunger, fade
into the soil. this would
convince him, I was sure,
that I could work--that I knew
how to balance a budget,
that I could negotiate.
that I had as much experience
as a person can bear.
(little did I know that it was
all written in a language
that he couldn't read)

february eighth (and seventh) time

The static noise present in old film recordings reminds me of the smell of old books. Similar to how I often want to smell like old books, I would also like to sound like old films. Someday, technology will circle back.

february sixth (and fifth) time

a poem by my cat

yyyyyyylyl211111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111


sincerely,

cat

february fourth time

I enjoy the fact that 'bellow,' both the machine and the sound, is cognate with 'belly.' And that the structure and utility of the lung connects all three concepts together.

I like it when the body and linguistics relate at the same places, because it makes language feel particularly organic.

February third time

With the fall of the newspaper has also come
the fall of the newspaper sailboat. To overcome
this egregious development, many elves are now
using aluminum cans for public transportation.
They refer to them as submarines, and while many
communities were disappointed by the seeming
lack of reading material, they eventually discovered
something remarkable: inside of each can
were etched tiny, recyclable poems.

While they were absorbed into the bodies of humans
without a thought--dense in the liquid--the elves
studied these messages for hundreds of years.
They were often brilliant, and often eroded away
due to the great deal of carbonation to which
they were exposed. It was an incredible tragedy.

february second time

I would like to live in a townhouse.
I would like to live in a townhouse because
every year I would build a new room, floor,
or balcony--and in this way, I would be the chambered
nautilus of homeowners. I would be the subject of so many
poems and proofs of mathematical beauty in a chaotic world
that my dinner parties would be the talk of the whole District. I
would always know what was coming next, and when, and where.

February first time

Is hospital art a niche market? Do I want to be a part of that market? I feel like there must be a very precise ratio of hope-to-approachability that goes into each piece. I wonder if it is bizarre to accept that your interpretation of reality might be the last thing that someone else sees before they die. I would insist on covering the walls of my room with my own photographs/paintings/writing. Is that conceited? Would they do it? What if it were the last (chronologically) thing that I wanted?

January thirty first time

There was once a battle between two rivaling subspecies:
the sea sponge and the kitchen sponge. The war was
instigated by humans. It was based upon shape,
color, and smell. In the end--everything was clean.
Sponges bleed soap. The humans had won.

January thirtieth time

I didn't post yesterday because I was diagnosed with some immune system issues and spent the evening reading about them on the Internet.

Sometimes, life gets in the way of life.


I imagine that the room is a zebra.
I do this because the blinds cut
the shadows on the wall just right.
I do this because I want my home
to be more exciting. Because I long
for an Other, an Exotic, an intimate
place where I am comfortable
and know nothing at the same time.

January twenty-eighth time

Modern day knights--
the lancing, crusading
variety--would have
an enormous social
media presence.
They would be styled
by the finest tailors
and the peasants
would compete to cut
their immaculately
colored hair. Knights
would often be women.
All would champion
the voices of those
previously unheard.
They would treat
their horses kindly.
There would be
minstrels to sing
these songs;
and every year,
fewer distressed
damsels--many
more tourneys,
feasts of plenty,
slaying of dragons.

january twenty-seventh time

this one time, a kitten sailed to the end of the world
in a yellow catamaran, and her eyes were green
like moss, and her mission was to find the answers
to all of the questions. it was very difficult for her
because she did not speak any common languages,
and because she did not have a simple name,
and because she was often thirsty and desalinating
water is quite difficult without thumbs.

January twenty-sixth time

My eyeballs feel like peeled oranges. That is how tired I am.

January 25th time

I am waiting for things to get easier,
but the poem of it has too many
ellipses to be a pleasant read.

january twenty-fourth time

I have spent a considerable amount of time
on the following series of thoughts: if teapots
were animals, how would they move? Would
they arch their stomachs and slouch forward,
like inchworms? Would they glide along
the ground like the noble Zamboni? Often,
I wonder if they would ever be hungry,
and if they would whistle of their own accord.

January twenty-third time

Sometimes, I avoid washing laundry for impressive
spans of time. If I wait long enough, tiny woodland
creatures nest in the arms of my sweaters.
Their eyes are large and their noses soft and wet
like riverbanks. They nuzzle me when I stumble
across them, looking for that second sock
or black leg warmers instead of brown,
and I am reminded of the unanticipated boons
that procrastination can provide.

january twenty-second time

roadblocks to content:

cold toes,
not enough flowers,
chapped lips,
light pollution,
inability to say when,
inability to sing why
or dance who, or imagine where

january twenty-first time

the idea for window blinds came from the peddler
who first built a swing set large enough accomodate
an entire kingdom of gremlins. the oldest of the herd
sat at the top, while the young and adventurous
clutched excitedly at the bottom rung. when gusts
of particularly aggressive wind blustered across
his garden, the gentleman would hear a strange
and musical chiming of voices: some joyous,
some frightened, but all very much alive--

both looking out and very much out, sometimes
the tiny fellows would fall asleep on the flattened
pews of wood during the calm. surrounded by
countrymen, able to see for meters, they were
utterly impressed with their good fortune
and almost hoped for storms, which seemed
to keep them agile, brave, and eternally young.

january twentieth time

We lived seriously. We ate
our waffles like they were
the last on Earth. We never
blinked. We swore that no
stone would go unturned.
We were not sure whether
to speak, or pray.

January nineteenth time

Where are all of the good sports poems?

january eighteenth time

no part of the body is beautiful without its physical context:
a neck without a head or chest, a toe without a foot,
a belly button without a belly.

are all beauties this way, or are we just too close to this particular
arena to judge?

January seventeenth time

there was once a society in which
true love became obvious at a very young age,
and brilliant artists were asked to intertwine
the bodies of the adoring. Their arms and legs
combined would form fantastic shapes; the radical
intimacy of their limbs would awe the most
accomplished tree sculptor. The most remarkable
part of the craft was that the lovers would grow
together--fingers bowed with lacing, ribs skewed,
every nook and hollow seeming to bend into a heart.

january sixteenth time

There were bundles of burdens that morning.
No return addresses. They sat on the front yard
like fresh tree stumps, and patiently decomposed.
They were all different sizes--some were tiny
but exceptionally dense. Some rolled across
the front porch like tumbleweeds. I wanted
to bury them in the vegetable patch. Forgetting
was not an option, really: Someday, they would
be ripe, and they would blossom from their
chest-deep-husks as heart attacks are prone
to do. The anxiety of their hiatus would be
too much. The burdens had these mysterious
means of coming and going. There were always
ribbons on the boxes--I could tell that someone,
somewhere, was exceptionally grateful.

january fifteenth time

kittens have such long whiskers from their
glorious and infamous days as trapeze artists.

if you want something badly enough,
it grows into you--evolution understands
longing better than anyone else.

january fourteenth time

in springtime, all of the poinsettias
slouch down and shed their red coats
and pinch little pieces of sky out
with their petals, like stars do

(the tired housewives ready
for lilies, daffodils, tulips)

and winter is over and they
are its sinew, slack, left to wilt

january thirteenth time

Meet my poem for the weekend:

january eleventh time

I am completely, absolutely, one hundred percent certain that magic is real. It is too fantastic and remarkable a concept, at least as it is shaped in my head, to have been forged without some sort of concrete root and frequent contemporary affirmation. I have seen the impact that words and thoughts can have on physical realities--who is to say that humans are the only ones listening? That the material world cannot comprehend language in some wildly bizarre and largely inexplicable fashion? I think that the anti-magic lobby is unbearably naive.

I'm going to try writing a definition here: Magic is the manifestation of a monopoly on power that was not obtained through clearly articulable* means.

Magic is what changes lead to gold, and horses to unicorns.

All of these words ring hollow: I know it. Though... I feel it in my bones! The world has magic, and I know this for the same reason as some people believe in god and some people believe in love. Or truth, or beauty, or any other forces requiring faith. It's embarrassingly non-justifiable, when you get down to it. I would like to say that (at least) my belief system supports greater personal agency... but I'm not certain that it does.

Magic... you know it when you see it, like pornography or a turn on the street that you haven't taken for years.


*http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/21/opinion/21iht-edsafire.1.7978731.html?_r=0

january tenth time

I honestly do not know what pinnacle of greatness I will have to surpass to feel justified in writing in some of my prettier blank pocket notebooks.

january ninth time

the street was injured
and it wept from fire hydrants
and its braids were dark like asphalt
and there were red graffiti scars that it
could not conceal, despite the traffic guard's
desperate attempts to stand on top of those very
spots. it slithered through town like the anxious
whistling of a child walking home alone. nowhere
else have I felt such sadness--the street only
hit, only built to be beaten, only worthwhile
if sufficiently used.

january eighth time

I would like to make all future real estate decisions based upon the number of four-leaf clovers found in the yard.

january seventh time

fairies make their dining room candles out of earwax.
and use matchstick steps, and eat the tiny red edges
of already-bitten strawberries. fairies often
wait for heavily-perfumed women to walk by
so that they can bathe in the air. fairies sleep
in the ash left in the fireplace; it reminds them
of the best part of toasted marshmallows.

january sixth time

love

one times one
with a sunrise,
with a kiss,
with a nod at self
but a swift refusal
of two or zero

the product is made
of the parts that one knows
so selfly intimate that it is
the same as the beginning /
before solution, before added
value, before change

(searching and searching
for an escape from complexity
through love)

january fifth time

rays

brittlelight basking is tough as fish scales
lurching and roundabout thin as tired sails
inaround inaround sunshine and dust
springtime from skyface until we all rust

january fourth time

the father of the carousel was very solemn
and had two eyes blue like spring pinwheels
and slouched around the field weeping
because the steady trampling of dandelions
skipped away from him and toward his bright
rambunctious son: who could sing and spin
and wear a thousand dazzling eyes.

january third time

i would like to pinpoint
the exact difference
between sadness and sorrow.

it is a quiet distinction
that mews and murmurs
in the night.

sadness is a broad,
shallow thing that bleeds
into all cavities:
it is stretched fingers
with no premeditated shape.

sorrow is reed-like:
it is pointed and deep
and perennial; taking root
only in the tiny nook
between the lung and the heart.

you can diagnose the species
of tragedy based on the weight
and pitch of each cry
wrenched. this is the work
of singers, writers, and
small, lonely gods.

january second time

one summer, i wanted
to believe in desert fish.
the waves of sand supple
and pulsing with life
and the water in cacti
somehow, romantically,
just enough. i wanted
somewhere tangible
and underrated for myself:
a secret garden made
of heat and shale.

january first time

my folly was trying to describe a hole
through metaphor.

i would like to believe that describing a whole
is easier, but i have the lingering

suspicion that i will spend my life trying,
and succeed only after.