Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
9/18 (or 9/17: 2) For Anna *
* to a best friend who is always a best friend.
one day, we'll be older.
and grayer with these lines, new lines, defining our faces.
we'll have the same eye colors,
but we'll care differently. deeper.
that day, once in the nondescript future,
i'll look at you and constantly remember our history -
we'll comment about being old, but not knowing where everything went.
and i'll say,
"i love you"
about a million different ways
and mean each one.
one day, we'll be older.
and grayer with these lines, new lines, defining our faces.
we'll have the same eye colors,
but we'll care differently. deeper.
that day, once in the nondescript future,
i'll look at you and constantly remember our history -
we'll comment about being old, but not knowing where everything went.
and i'll say,
"i love you"
about a million different ways
and mean each one.
9/17
The de-evolution of a person starts early,
but we all know that.
I'd say it's the exact moment his hand slid down your pants.
This could have been approximately thirty minutes
(give or take)
after you snuck out of your house that one cold night in your hometown.
The moon might've been hanging low and the roofs of all your neighbors' homes
probably were lit up with frost.
Anyway, I don't know, exactly;
I'm just estimating.
but we all know that.
I'd say it's the exact moment his hand slid down your pants.
This could have been approximately thirty minutes
(give or take)
after you snuck out of your house that one cold night in your hometown.
The moon might've been hanging low and the roofs of all your neighbors' homes
probably were lit up with frost.
Anyway, I don't know, exactly;
I'm just estimating.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
9/16
Standing up is no less a miracle than Lazarus.
My skin, no less a sunset than an evening lost in chest high corn, sticky with summer.
Being still is no less a goddamned concerto than heart-breaking mornings wrapped in wool.
How many times must the night eat the moon? How many ashes on my head? How many feasts in celebrations?
Bones mended by sensation - sometimes just one touch.
This life is.
My skin, no less a sunset than an evening lost in chest high corn, sticky with summer.
Being still is no less a goddamned concerto than heart-breaking mornings wrapped in wool.
How many times must the night eat the moon? How many ashes on my head? How many feasts in celebrations?
Bones mended by sensation - sometimes just one touch.
This life is.
9/15
I can tell you about beauty. We all can sit around and tell each other - look each other right in the eye and sing songs composed from mountains. We can piece together strings of perfect moments and soak in the sunshine with iced tea, even just for a minute, to define it. But, we don't even have to. It's in the atoms we absorb into our skin and in the water that beads up around our noses and when you, hastily, pull down my green panties - the ones that are losing waistline elasticity.
9/14: Missed Connections: a Found, but edited poem.
It was raining that night and the rain slowed down.
I was in the Left Turn lane driving a Black Mustang
You
(and 2 of your friends) waved.
We both rolled down the windows. You were driving a truck, (i think it was blue)
you said you liked my car and asked if it was fast- I smiled and said yes, gave a light rev and you jumped a little.
the exhaust was loud like a race car.
I was in the Left Turn lane driving a Black Mustang
You
(and 2 of your friends) waved.
We both rolled down the windows. You were driving a truck, (i think it was blue)
you said you liked my car and asked if it was fast- I smiled and said yes, gave a light rev and you jumped a little.
the exhaust was loud like a race car.
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