Self reflection

God, why am I so
cliche, I mean poetry about
anatomical hearts,
about poetry,
about love.

God, stupid poet me,
shut the hell up.

You can buy it on the TV

You’ve been waiting for this.
They brought you boiled eggs
in yellow plastic holders

from the altar of your microwave.
They’ve insured you
never have to be without
the safety of your cacoon.

Once, you bought a cure
for your rough feet, your acne,
your dry lips, your flabby tummy/thighs/arms/
butt/chin/chest/back.

But now, they’ve done it.
The one thing you’ve always dreamed
of, Tinman. It’s beating, it’s waiting
for your call, your credit
card number, your four easy payments
of 19.95.

It will move inside you.
It will fill up space.

Night snow run

When she began, the first snowflakes
fell gently, hanging sparce in the black
air. Each one that landed on her coat,

on her hair gave speed to her footfalls.

As she ran, the snow, too, gained speed.
It began to lie in an altering blanket on cars,
began to make the crack in the sidewalk

look gentler, easy. She left her doorway,
all sharp corners, her life was rough
concrete, but she returned to a smooth

blank doorway, to the trash on the sidewalk
converted into idylic hills and valleys
in the tiny world of a single street.

The Sewers of Lingere

They stitch lace to satin,
materials flowing between
their fingers, tiny movements

of needle and thread. Putting together
these tiny pieces of lust, they imagine
with every small pair the first time

a boy slid his hands down their backs
to push down this tantalizing gateway
to new life. The day wears on,

the pieces of fabric swell, they grow.
The women laugh and move through
their lives, the births of children,

celebrations, the things they wore
beneath black dresses at funerals,
the garments hidden beneath

the lies of adultry. Those who
have kept a semblance of small
frame, muscle, laugh and joke

about the image of a fat woman
spreading her legs, her lover’s lips
on her skin. The rest stay silent

hold back laughter, and pity
what the others will never know.

I’ve been absent…

In that time, I got fat again. This happened because I stopped running. I stopped running because I was falling out of love and didn’t want to think about it.

I was asked to read at a poetry reading in November, but they had second thoughts about it. When I got there they told me that I am a little self refrencing and immature. They wanted me to watch these tendencies as I read. I wanted to punch one of them in the face.

All of this made me think of my poetry. I am self refrencing. But I think that this plays into my belief about poetry and community. Poets originally worked for their community. They told news stories, stories of great battles, stories of noble marraiges. When the printing press came along, news no longer had to be carried by minstrels and poets.

When I do a reading, it is mostly local, and mostly populated by people I know. They enjoy hearing these poems. Also, I am not always the I character in these poems. I like to use the I because it feels immediate.

Anyhow, Bah on them. I am a good poet. Bastards.

On the perfection in small mistakes

*** This is post no. 1 in a series of photo’s taken from my life and poems written about them. Some poems will be true, some fictitious. Which are which? I’ll never tell ***

On the perfection in small mistakes

Slide the tomato under
the water’s stream, turn off
the faucet, expose the tiny cities
of round, clustered seeds in caves
inside. The directions flow
thru her hear, the sun reaches

for her. She grips the green knife handle,
smelling the spicy rice, she turns down
the burner, and curses herself for prepping
the vegetables too early, severing
the corn kernels from a cob.

Landscape: Urban

To get out, she has to go thru a tunnel.
Down, down, down. So many stairs,
tan walls crowding her movements.

Out the door, she will escape. In daylight,
nameless children rule the street. The street,
one side lined with cars, cracked sidewalks,
unhygenic grit, trash, and food wrappers,

and cat shit, and trash. The children are there,
their mothers are not. The children play on the sidewalks,

crossing the street. They stop her to ask if her dog
bites. Occasionally there are adults on the street;
they fight. The houses and apartments line

the street like teeth. There is a park, open,
grassy, unfenced, at the end of the street.
The children never make it there. They stay
in the dirt, they pick up the trash and throw it

against the cars, against the buildings. The city
is endless, but this fanged block is theirs.

Pool at the St. James

Whenever I play pool in a crowded bar,
I think of Donald in Mathmatics Land,
and its candy colored characters. I try to see

the dotted lines, the right angles.
They obviously come naturally
to you, a red striped ball tips

into a side pocket; the one
with a yellow stripe falls into a corner.
I have to laugh at the way you try

to encourage me. The green felt is dotted
with green, blue, solid spots. I’m drunk

and leaning against the table as I try to align
the blue tipped cue to the white dot.
The motion on the table blends ball

into ball, solid matter turning into sound
and color. Those right angles, Donald Duck’s

scratchy voice. You thought I could do it,
and I love to try when I know I will fail.

Perseid Sky

I.

Meet me beneath the meteor streaked sky
tonight. Years ago, you asked to stay here,

and now I want to change my answer. I went
to a bar the other day and ordered a vodka tonic,
it should have been a gin. At least it wasn’t the worst

mistake I ever made. Tonight, I’m alone. I want
to correct all of my bad choices. My worst

choice was made on a day so hot. Meet me
tonight beneath this perseid sky, meet me.

II.

I know. I know you will not come. I know it
the same way I know how the sky will glow tonight.
I know that thin sparkling ribbons will unravel themselves
against this black velvet curtain. I know from experience.

I will wait for you, though. I will sit in the park
at the end of my street. I will sit until 1 o’clock, 2 o’clock, 3.

This waiting is an act of love, an act of nature like any other.

III.

Don’t think that this is an act of stupidity. I know
when I am not loved, but this is an act
of something else. Something more extraordinary than love. I will only call to you once more.

How love begets violence

She has never been accustomed
to weapons, to blood, but one day,

she gets the notion to sever your head
and crack open the thin bones of your skull.

She wants to scape your brains out with a dull
wooden spoon, to fry them, and feed them

to someone unsuspecting. Placed in a chili,
perhaps vegans would mistake them

for filler. She chooses a short, serrated
kitchen knife. She waits by the door.