Thursday, May 15, 2008

Higher gas prices
High waters

Pull out
the people,
put in
the poor
with bombs
to make us
Blow.
Quiet yourself Thunder,
I need
to make my echo.
I look
at young
boys now
as God
exists quietly
, After
the long road
spent rolls back
back to 1966.
I'm writing
to tell you
that it's all
going to happen
Again
and again.
Water in the streets
higher
Gas prices rise.
No one has a boat,
contradiction
throbs on my temple.
Slow to heal.
S l o w.
What would this river say
about it's own
End after
it's all said and done?

A still love poem

My love lies in the pale pastel glow

At night, a lamp's on,
pointing to the corner, as
we speak of light subjects with our eyes always open.
"Can't have a dark corner in our room," he says.
We let corners of our minds lie in the dark.

Somehow we're cruise ships
with too many chances to lounge
around outsides the raiding zones.
Some call it life--
we call it fortune.

We can seal our regrets
in mason jars and kiss until
we find ourselves naked.
A sea of sheets swallows us
whole, then everything
is real,
even our shadows,
even reflections, even speech and mascara smears.
You smile. I brush the hair from my eyes.

The sole purpose of delicious things is to save us,
so I smoke a cigarette and
you make popcorn.
I think for a moment that I smell soapberry,
but I realize it's only butter
and we're no where near the tropics.

French is a beautiful and terrifying language,
learning it wouldn't change anything
except we could speak
the art of facing our own ecstasies
and become the thing that is larger than ourselves.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

From a sophomore studio notebook


So going around leaving nothing, so thinking of you.

You kiss her knees, both of them, right on the caps.
She says to you then, "You, dear, can't cut just one tree in a forest."

"Why?" You ask.

"Why not?" She answers, "Because you'll end up building a house."
You brush the hair from the corners of her mouth and she laughs.
You say to her, "Be silly, as long as you feel it in your toes."

You want to touch her neck but she says, "The window's open and I can feel the hurricane breeze."


How, now and then, I find a penny, only I spit on it while waiting to get rich.
Sounds too cliche but that's what I get when so going around leaving nothing, so thinking of you.


What if my shoelaces tied themselves, or better yet, never came undone?
I cut my hair and throw the abandoned strands in saltwater and somehow you love it when I cry. As if to say it will all grow back...a little, not too fast.
Is enough.

notes from the margins


Language fills my dresser drawer
sometimes I collect them into poems.

A library of smells
the library smells

astricks mean a lot of me

If only a pimple had a proper home

pop of perfect peace, the pop of baby food jars

cozy rosaries
word cubes
inside diatribes

Vegetables are done when they smell
like themselves.

If I resemble my mother,
that's not a catastrophe.

raiding zones
soapberry
mason jars
mascara
temple


This poem fills
my belly,
verbs like cramps.
language fills my head.

When Brooklyn sleeps
I keep my eyes
on the cracks
in the sidewalks.

A beautiful child of light,
smokes her last cigarette.

John Wayne's teeth--
are they real?
Are they wood
or are they steal?

She has the need
to search for the middle.
I want to find the middle.
The middle of what?

Why is Please Please Please
so good?

poets
write
for
eachother

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Different window scenes light dreams I feel what it means

I felt Brooklyn on my skin

buying cigs from the bodega window
with my pizza slice heatin'
in an oven next door

I played at the park
swingin' with free four-year-olds

saw keri russel and kept my cool
like it was normal with my
insides jumpin' and smilin'

runnin' after ice cream trucks
with a two-year-old screamin'
iiiiiicccceeee crrreeeaaammmmm!

Stoopin' it with popcicles and
catchin' five-year-olds
before stumblin' back

nannies lookin' at me like I'm
not allowed to jump and smile
me, wishin' I could relax a while


I hear alley cats screech
sirens wail
Johnny tellin' Ramone
to go to hell
walkin' home at 3 a.m.
ain't a reach

seein' road blocks and
filming sets
green screens and
smoke scenes
at the corner of Mrytle and Hall
listenin' with my hand in my pocket
rockin' it to a Badu beat
jumpin' to my ears
makin' smiles from fears

I felt Brooklyn on my skin