Thursday, October 4, 2012
Find me
Nowadays I'm over here instead.
Below are some poems from a long ago NaPoWriMo.
Below that, I can't remember.
Monday, May 23, 2011
may.22-23.2011
often, i am not thinking about my family
and then becoming a monster, both of us
creative,
a mother once pausing
with bad thoughts
that stick
in relation to whiter things,
what we consider teeth
children don’t know about wind or leaning
but they get to feel their own personal weight
& we can put more sections in
that involve my adult steps behind yours
our shoulders humming together
it is not easy to start thinking about gravity
& what it wants,
picture rows of feet and how
the height of a body
makes pavement a lot less
of traveling
it’s this kind of stacking that
i wish i knew,
how to weep
or at least
pile myself big enough
to hurt people
often i am proud of the things
that come out
but forget about
their leaving
so i eat unusual foods
outside
or near grass
so that i can
feel different
toward you
when we’re in the same room
you remind me of
that [one] time
you were so good,
you said
what
about my family
or my name, once inhabited
by little balls of light
& i said
let’s be more like shoulders
i would never kick anyone
in the ribs
but only because
i cannot reach them
may.22.2011
I apologize ahead of time for all the
photographs that have never
been written
for the limbs
we talk about frequently
bcuz
we have a lot of them
&
they can’t distinguish each other
little categories, sure
but just
blowing into empty space
slowly
& it’s been a very
complicated
relationship
with my
anything really weighing
on my
last time i honestly can’t
really start meeting folks, how i relate to mine
the only way i can ever really see you
through displacement,
you, or glasses of old cabernet
you, or windows with dirty hand signals
you: (a little bit) tricky long-distance
from/manipulation/or/that time we knew about walking home
i would sleep
/if i were something else/
stop being fooled by
constant breathing
so i could
harness
my
peripheries
in getting lost
if i could just be
OK
and
sleepy
but instead,
i am not moving at all until
the week before i am comfortable,
since there are things i just can’t say,
but what if i just deep down
remove the years ago parts,
and remember the good fortune
standing between us
and what it looks like
to be a daughter
when i finally think i can
stick my hearing around
the corners of your mailbox
or tell you about
the risk of changing topics
or
the fucking conversations
you might compare me to
if my ears became bobcats
and i stopped saying thank you
but first, i wanted to
get all this down,
so i took my right leg
and then i took my left one
then my right
Monday, May 2, 2011
She wanted second-hand smoke the way his mouth said “hi”
the ocean is not a good idea. is around 6 years old. is full of freckles.
the ocean embarrasses me. low-income, squirming.
makes me feel different around people in tshirts, with long legs,
or else if i pretended to write a letter
and it only spilled out, raw sewage all over,
on the airplane’s descent. the vulnerable anthropologist.
the ocean is confidently predicted by my embarrassing hunger.
the way we made pretend ocean using ropes and finger-sized breath.
an embarrassment of riches. (yes, i did say many…
but i retextured all the little swimming holes. the fish,
held in place. movement and the needles, a sewing that makes thread get thicker. time
becomes a decoration, or a paperweight. the ocean unravels into paper, just the same,
children splashing at the water basin, the enamel continuous and shoulder-like.
there’s a way you can rent water for these kinds of things,
said one child dancing on cold circles, ignited and strands dripping, pulled.
the entire scene shifts and focuses on one tiny anchor,
keeping the boat
in place, fifty men caught pushing their least
favorite months into the burning engine.
there’s never been a water cooler more easily filled.
if i could step into it, or you, like so many before me,
putting water on my face with my palms
laid out together as if to tell you
i like the weight, the water pulling our hair
into thick globs of rope, infinite fish,
the one child still under her umbrella,
listening to the circles blown out of your mouth.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
April 27th, 192011
i write “Derrick” in a love poem,
thinking this means people may fall
for,
thinking people other than me are,
sometimes sideways and once,
a small placing like hands or chalk lines,
once tipping over like names that don’t come from,
once naming something inside a person who feels empty.
one time, “maybe people will fall in love with you.”
somewhere, buried in my closet.
somewhere, only my cat knows how to arrive.
sometime, forgetting who it really was.
a certain kind of shimmy, once two-fold, once the better half.
the name, only halfway.
Day Twenty Five/seven/4
as far as formulas go
it is the capacity
of things in slices
mostly
where i understand
the importance
of literal meaning
how we
sometimes
walk into
all of it, at once
no sudden basements
or positing, like
chains or family units,
pluralities of
neither pointing
backwards
nor recognizing numbers that shift
this is why language needs:
without soft understanding,
my legs are no less likely
than foreign
words, kind of
couches that suggest themselves,
by no means comic
editorial
overinsightfulness
lost within armchair
&terrible cruelty
here, a first sentence
is like a strange face:
burdened with the responses
of lonely dogs,
not necessarily
completely
realized,
but a similar
craving than
horizon,
was once inspected geography, was often
the ground,
approaching our hands and
and all anyone can be
is where the sunset may happen
thirty years later,
our legs
continually
bending backwards,
trying to remember
once
fitting our knees
in appropriate categories
or a right angle that
used to be something,
pretty
after K
after K
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Day, something
I’m being forced to write something. The sun’s pictures of dead and dying fans squashed against the railings. I’m not making it into cheapskate lemonade or authoritative figures, not just for dead people but for all images: they’ve no problem with making someone look a bit prettier or more appropriate for the grass photos of stepmother sin. Do you know that almost all dead people are making some common home decorating mistakes that may make our home look wasted? They were in and have been scooped up by the river side, not by wealth but understanding. How ‘bout pictures of really, really large dead people? Because more children are making it to adulthood, more people are putting up pictures in the house. So compared to what people have been talking about here the pictures are quite candid. Does anyone have any advice on making a Catholic Advance Directive? Who owns the copyright to images of famous dead people? Chances are they’re making a nice home for themselves in black issues or the naked photos; people have to speak! How do they embalm people? By making a purchase of 25% of each journal. I’ve seen so many creepy pictures. I’m not totally opposed to making fun of dead people, as long as they’re from Italy, certainly, and the effect of this promiscuous and indecent splashing down into so many wells just makes out a sliver of all the ignorant people. Is it OK or not? The importance of making a bunny of yourself involves allegedly trading pictures of people beneath interstate 4. When I was in high school a quasi-friend died in a car accident; these are the best beauty tips and perhaps, at that time, your understanding of the photos shows little understanding of how people are still dying. After all, making the desert bloom, carefully laid out and circulating people, nearly 3,000 of them, means you have the authority of the days growing shorter and people still looking for mischief and instrument. Mt. Everest has around 2,000 dead bodies; the air is so thin that there is no margin for error. I bet those people must feel like God, like 200 pics of almost everything posted to a Swedish or German website: taking up the information and spreading it along, making censorship next to impossible.
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