Love You Kids
Copters clip to the clouds as their
lost luggage looks upward,
“I’m still here,” they cry, and down below
shooters of looters lay the law.
Pilots peer at the roof-stranded refugees
but they only see black mold
spreading across the shelter’s summit.
Fever Dream
At night I crawl into a castle,
pull its outer walls up to my chin
and lay my arms across the battlements.
Outside there’s the roar of an army
of mice and elephants
stampeding along the moat.
The orange, circular explosions created by their artillery
swell slowly and innumerably beneath my eyelids.
I look over the rampart’s edge,
peer down the curtain wall
and see my feet sticking out
at the bottom, toes wiggling,
twenty feet below.
Listening to Joanna Newsom
There is a sacred ribbon
with your voice on it,
and when I imagine
pulling this ribbon
back and forth
between my ears,
I am on the floor,
eyes rolled back,
my top teeth sticking out
for a grin.
You may make your ribbon
into a clothesline,
if you like,
and I will be your laundry
hung up by this ribbon
as a gentle breeze
blows me
in the direction
of a nearby cornfield.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Sestina
TO MY POETRY PROFESSOR
(A Care I Post)
(A Care I Post)
All right.
It’s been a long time
since I was supposed to have written this poem,
and I am once again
trying my best to write
this.
I dunno if I can do this!
I keep thinking it’s not right
and then I feel too inhibited to write,
time after time,
and the reason I try again
is because I know I have to finish this poem.
What bothers me most about the poem
is that it gives me this
feeling of repeating one thought again and again,
and to me that’s not right.
I’d exhaust the thought in no time,
And that is not how I want to write.
I wish I was able to write
the most beloved, preeimenent poem,
one that stands up to the might of Time,
but instead I pour out this,
a tired, unfocused, nearly-defeated man—I mean poem!
Oh, I wish never to write poetry again!
Okay, let’s try this again.
As long as the poem is in my own write,
and the pattern is just right
the resulting poem
will be the best I’ve written. This
one will be good. I’ll get it this time.
But Jesus, this is taking too much time.
I think I’m gonna give up again.
Agh, fuck this!
Six stanzas are too much for me to write!
I’m done with writing this poem.
I’ll never get it right.
Well now, it looks like this time I did all right,
and when I read through it again it’s not the worst poem,
but God, this sucked to write.
Ars poetica
Aorta Spice
Suck it in,
now let it swirl around inside for a bit.
Once you feel it has left its stain,
just let it out.
See how the smoke lingers in the air,
how it curls and twists.
Let it writhe around,
fold in and out on itself.
Trace its patterns with your eyes.
Once you have had your way with it,
fan it out the window,
so that it may join the rest
in the great smoke collective.
Suck it in,
now let it swirl around inside for a bit.
Once you feel it has left its stain,
just let it out.
See how the smoke lingers in the air,
how it curls and twists.
Let it writhe around,
fold in and out on itself.
Trace its patterns with your eyes.
Once you have had your way with it,
fan it out the window,
so that it may join the rest
in the great smoke collective.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Place poem
Backseat
My troubles, they
sprout,
like the standing water as I shower;
linger,
like pot smoke in my living room,
and I long for them to pass over me,
much like the long orange glow
of streelights in my youth, washing over me
as I sit in the quietude of the backseat.
My troubles, they
sprout,
like bad acne;
plant, like the warts on my feet;
rise,like the standing water as I shower;
linger,
like pot smoke in my living room,
and I long for them to pass over me,
much like the long orange glow
of streelights in my youth, washing over me
as I sit in the quietude of the backseat.
Witness poem
Morel
S’nice out! Come hunting with me!
Stay close,
don’t wander too far,
and oh, you found some!
Yes, yes!
that’s the right kind.
Back at home,
I’ll cut them into pieces.
Crack these eggs;
let me heat up the butter.
Eggs stirred? Toss ‘em in!
Coat ‘em real good, now;
I got the cracker crumbs.
Cook ‘em up real nice, now,
just like that.
This is a memory I like to keep,
even though I wouldn’t eat those mushrooms;
I was simply happy to have found them.
S’nice out! Come hunting with me!
Stay close,
don’t wander too far,
and oh, you found some!
Yes, yes!
that’s the right kind.
Back at home,
I’ll cut them into pieces.
Crack these eggs;
let me heat up the butter.
Eggs stirred? Toss ‘em in!
Coat ‘em real good, now;
I got the cracker crumbs.
Cook ‘em up real nice, now,
just like that.
This is a memory I like to keep,
even though I wouldn’t eat those mushrooms;
I was simply happy to have found them.
Harjo poem
Joy, or maybe Equus
With all her tired horses in the sun,
how’m I s’posed to get any writin’ done?
With all her tired horses in the sun,
how’m I s’posed to get any writin’ done?
Shadow poem
Mammoth Blue
Welcome to soundless, expansive,
turbid void, drifting in solitude,
caught in mammoth blue.
Something massive and
silent creeps over;
that deep, low rumble swallows.
Heart, the glass elevator,
it does its best to remain
always in the opposite corner of the room.
Where is that bird outside the window,
that wind against the ear?
Wake up, already!
Where are the sputters of passing motorcycles,
those rattling bottles on the fridge?
Welcome to soundless, expansive,
turbid void, drifting in solitude,
caught in mammoth blue.
Something massive and
silent creeps over;
that deep, low rumble swallows.
Heart, the glass elevator,
it does its best to remain
always in the opposite corner of the room.
Where is that bird outside the window,
that wind against the ear?
Wake up, already!
Where are the sputters of passing motorcycles,
those rattling bottles on the fridge?
Brenda Jones poem
Stepping back
I stepped into the gallery
and was taken back to cubiculō Caligulae,
quī bacchationem habebat,
ac phasmates plebum vīdī,
spectántia cum libidibus tristibus.
I stopped at one particular painting,
my arms folded,
weight shifted toward one hip,
and I realized I was staring at myself.
I stepped into the gallery
and was taken back to cubiculō Caligulae,
quī bacchationem habebat,
ac phasmates plebum vīdī,
spectántia cum libidibus tristibus.
I stopped at one particular painting,
my arms folded,
weight shifted toward one hip,
and I realized I was staring at myself.
Cisneros poem
Listening to Joanna Newsom
There is a sacred ribbon
with your voice on it,
and when I imagine
tugging this cinta
back and forth
between my ears,
I am on the floor,
eyes rolled back,
top teeth sticking out
for a grin.
You may make your ribbon
into a clothesline,
if you like,
and I will be your ropa sucia,
hanging as a gentle breeze
blows me
in the direction
of a nearby maizal.
There is a sacred ribbon
with your voice on it,
and when I imagine
tugging this cinta
back and forth
between my ears,
I am on the floor,
eyes rolled back,
top teeth sticking out
for a grin.
You may make your ribbon
into a clothesline,
if you like,
and I will be your ropa sucia,
hanging as a gentle breeze
blows me
in the direction
of a nearby maizal.
Family poem
One night my grandma came back to life
One night grandma came back to life
and grandpa, too.
Their now-emptied house was once again filled
with relatives, life, memories,
the dark wood paneling!
the secret door in the brick wall!
leading me to that chest of old
children’s books and stuffed animals from forty years ago.
The next night we sat together,
grandma and grandpa and I.
I could not help but ask
what it was like to be dead.
They looked at me with confusion,
and at that moment my love for them was so tender.
The next night grandpa died again,
and grandma’s friend, too.
I watched her sit alone
In the middle of a room.
The next night I went back to the house,
but they weren’t there.
The bearded man asked me to get off his property.
One night grandma came back to life
and grandpa, too.
Their now-emptied house was once again filled
with relatives, life, memories,
the dark wood paneling!
the secret door in the brick wall!
leading me to that chest of old
children’s books and stuffed animals from forty years ago.
The next night we sat together,
grandma and grandpa and I.
I could not help but ask
what it was like to be dead.
They looked at me with confusion,
and at that moment my love for them was so tender.
The next night grandpa died again,
and grandma’s friend, too.
I watched her sit alone
In the middle of a room.
The next night I went back to the house,
but they weren’t there.
The bearded man asked me to get off his property.
Soto poem
At a happy gathering
At a happy gathering,
while both making
and taking my rounds,
my girl pulls me
into the laundry closet.
From both surprise
and drink,
I cannot help but giggle
as she planted her lips
all around my neck,
and, as she left
to return to her game of
ball-in-a-cup,
I was left with a warm feeling
forming in my belly
and spreading across my chest.
Could this be…
some kind of magic closet??
I dash back,
pulling all kinds of girls
into the “secret closet”
in hopes that the dark,
confined area
will do its thing,
but instead the door bursts open,
and reveals a drunken, giggling pile
of me and three or four girls.
At a happy gathering,
while both making
and taking my rounds,
my girl pulls me
into the laundry closet.
From both surprise
and drink,
I cannot help but giggle
as she planted her lips
all around my neck,
and, as she left
to return to her game of
ball-in-a-cup,
I was left with a warm feeling
forming in my belly
and spreading across my chest.
Could this be…
some kind of magic closet??
I dash back,
pulling all kinds of girls
into the “secret closet”
in hopes that the dark,
confined area
will do its thing,
but instead the door bursts open,
and reveals a drunken, giggling pile
of me and three or four girls.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Poem revision
The Belly of a Clam
“…The wind picks up the breath of my armpits/Like dust, swirls it/Miles away/
And drops it/On the ear of a rabid dog,/And I take on another life”
-Gary Soto
I travel along a mountain.
The curve of a spoon was
too concave to maneuver.
Tossed from a cliff.
As I fall I am caught
in a pocket of infinity.
The strings of my being,
they slowly unravel.
I separate from myself, like a piece of lint,
a fibrous tumbleweed
in a volumeless suitcase.
Mother said I could
always begin anew.
“…The wind picks up the breath of my armpits/Like dust, swirls it/Miles away/
And drops it/On the ear of a rabid dog,/And I take on another life”
-Gary Soto
I travel along a mountain.
The curve of a spoon was
too concave to maneuver.
Tossed from a cliff.
As I fall I am caught
in a pocket of infinity.
The strings of my being,
they slowly unravel.
I separate from myself, like a piece of lint,
a fibrous tumbleweed
in a volumeless suitcase.
Mother said I could
always begin anew.
Two Collins poems
Fever Dream
At night I crawl into a castle,
pull its outer walls up to my chin
and lay my arms over the battlements.
Outside there’s the roar of an army
of mice and elephants stampeding up and down the moat.
The orange, circular explosions created by their artillery
swell slowly and innumerably beneath my eyelids.
I bid sweet dreams to a winged,
sky blue dragon at my side.
We peer over the rampart’s edge,
look down the curtain wall
and see my feet sticking out
at the bottom, toes wiggling,
twenty feet below.
Viewing the back of my head
As I was free-falling into a nonrotating black hole,
several facts from my astronomy lectures came to mind
(and where were they during my exam?):
Have I passed the ergosphere?
How long until I cross the event horizon?
I could see the stars above me contracting,
forming a narrow circle in space.
I must be within the photon sphere, then…
This isn’t so bad, I think, because
now I can rest easy on that term paper.
Soon I will only see the back of my head
in all directions. How comforting to think
that back at home, my lover can look through a telescope
and see my body, stretched and disfigured,
millions of lightyears away.
A timeless keepsake.
At night I crawl into a castle,
pull its outer walls up to my chin
and lay my arms over the battlements.
Outside there’s the roar of an army
of mice and elephants stampeding up and down the moat.
The orange, circular explosions created by their artillery
swell slowly and innumerably beneath my eyelids.
I bid sweet dreams to a winged,
sky blue dragon at my side.
We peer over the rampart’s edge,
look down the curtain wall
and see my feet sticking out
at the bottom, toes wiggling,
twenty feet below.
Viewing the back of my head
As I was free-falling into a nonrotating black hole,
several facts from my astronomy lectures came to mind
(and where were they during my exam?):
Have I passed the ergosphere?
How long until I cross the event horizon?
I could see the stars above me contracting,
forming a narrow circle in space.
I must be within the photon sphere, then…
This isn’t so bad, I think, because
now I can rest easy on that term paper.
Soon I will only see the back of my head
in all directions. How comforting to think
that back at home, my lover can look through a telescope
and see my body, stretched and disfigured,
millions of lightyears away.
A timeless keepsake.
Two-stanza poem
Glacial Age
In glacial pre-North America I creep forward.
Because I am curvaceous and shapely
I shape the land’s mountains
and smooth the hills’ curves;
a woman, I fashion them in my image.
There is someone inside me—a god, maybe,
and elsewhere this same god is inside my sisters,
guiding them in their creative paths.
A pasture spreads gently downhill,
coated with tall grass.
On a crisp, breezy day, a small stream runs,
winding, until it divides, curves,
then meets again, forming a small islet, and trickles onward.
A young boy watches this rivulet,
pondering the shape of stream and islet,
and proceeds to sing to himself, quietly,
about the footprints of his pet dinosaur.
In glacial pre-North America I creep forward.
Because I am curvaceous and shapely
I shape the land’s mountains
and smooth the hills’ curves;
a woman, I fashion them in my image.
There is someone inside me—a god, maybe,
and elsewhere this same god is inside my sisters,
guiding them in their creative paths.
A pasture spreads gently downhill,
coated with tall grass.
On a crisp, breezy day, a small stream runs,
winding, until it divides, curves,
then meets again, forming a small islet, and trickles onward.
A young boy watches this rivulet,
pondering the shape of stream and islet,
and proceeds to sing to himself, quietly,
about the footprints of his pet dinosaur.
Erotic poem
Excerpt from "The Erotic Sound"
After watching her strip
off her clothes she helped me unzip
my jeans and took no time to rip
them off. Licking her lip,
she wrapped her mouth around the tip;
but me, I just wanna dip,
so it took little effort to flip
her over and play with her nip,
steadily moving downward to her hip
where I could sip
from her until she had me equip
myself. Making sure I had a good grip,
I entered, and she let out a soft yip.
When we were done we just laid there, dripping.
After watching her strip
off her clothes she helped me unzip
my jeans and took no time to rip
them off. Licking her lip,
she wrapped her mouth around the tip;
but me, I just wanna dip,
so it took little effort to flip
her over and play with her nip,
steadily moving downward to her hip
where I could sip
from her until she had me equip
myself. Making sure I had a good grip,
I entered, and she let out a soft yip.
When we were done we just laid there, dripping.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Black Man Ordering Dinner
How y’all doin’ t’night,
I wou’ like this t’go, please.
Y’all got hot wings?
Hot wings?
A’ight, I wou’ like a poun’a half’a
hot wings.
Hol’ on.
YO! Montgom’ry!
Wha’ y’all want f’sauce?
We got
ranch, we got
bleu cheese, we got
dij—
Ranch?
Ranch.
Y’all got cheesebread?
Okay, cheesebread.
Y’all got two-liters?
Hol’ on, hol’ on—YO!
Wha’ y’all wanna drink?
We got
Coke, we got
Di’ Coke, we got
Cherry Coke, we got
Dr. Pep—
no, Mr. Pibb…
Cherry Coke.
How much, man?
Eighteen fo’ty-one, eighteen fo’ty-one…
There y’go.
A’ight, thanks, man.
Hot wings…
I wou’ like this t’go, please.
Y’all got hot wings?
Hot wings?
A’ight, I wou’ like a poun’a half’a
hot wings.
Hol’ on.
YO! Montgom’ry!
Wha’ y’all want f’sauce?
We got
ranch, we got
bleu cheese, we got
dij—
Ranch?
Ranch.
Y’all got cheesebread?
Okay, cheesebread.
Y’all got two-liters?
Hol’ on, hol’ on—YO!
Wha’ y’all wanna drink?
We got
Coke, we got
Di’ Coke, we got
Cherry Coke, we got
Dr. Pep—
no, Mr. Pibb…
Cherry Coke.
How much, man?
Eighteen fo’ty-one, eighteen fo’ty-one…
There y’go.
A’ight, thanks, man.
Hot wings…
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Love You Kids
Copters clip to the clouds as their
lost luggage looks upward,
“I’m still here,” and down below
shooters of looters lay the law.
Pilots peer at the roof-stranded refugees
but they only see black mold
dotting the dome.
lost luggage looks upward,
“I’m still here,” and down below
shooters of looters lay the law.
Pilots peer at the roof-stranded refugees
but they only see black mold
dotting the dome.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Two poems
Will I Get a Sucker Afterwards?
I sit in the swivel chair,
receiving my sixty-seventh haircut.
Hundreds of snippets
dance slowly downward toward the cold, white floor
where they'll eventually get swept up with the garbage.
Mom says my hair grows too fast.
I carry my bag,
walking to my second class.
Millions of people
dance slowly through life toward a cold, grey stone
where they'll eventually rejoin the earth.
I grow up too fast.
DOUBT
You ask me repeatedly,
like dancing Wind
lifting you toward the high,
yet I tell you,
like Centipede daunting you
on your ceiling,
it is still there.
I sit in the swivel chair,
receiving my sixty-seventh haircut.
Hundreds of snippets
dance slowly downward toward the cold, white floor
where they'll eventually get swept up with the garbage.
Mom says my hair grows too fast.
I carry my bag,
walking to my second class.
Millions of people
dance slowly through life toward a cold, grey stone
where they'll eventually rejoin the earth.
I grow up too fast.
DOUBT
You ask me repeatedly,
like dancing Wind
lifting you toward the high,
yet I tell you,
like Centipede daunting you
on your ceiling,
it is still there.
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