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.