Author Archive for

14
Dec
12

Hurt


It hurts. 

I don't need you
to tell me. 

I know
the word
for it. 

I know my word for it. 
I regret learning it from you. 
I regret repeating it out loud. 
I regret coming back to it. 
It is my fault.
I made it my word. 
Now I hurt. 

I don't need 
you to tell me. 

It will hurt
even worse. 

It will hurt even worse. 
It will hurt worse than childbirth. 
It will hurt worse than growing old. 
It will hurt worse than death
after death after death. 

I know the word for it. 

It will hurt worse than that. 
It won't stop hurting. 
It can't stop hurting. 
It will hurt and hurt and hurt
and it will hurt you 
and it will hurt him
and it will hurt me even worse. 

It is my fault.
I made it my word. 

Now I hurt. 

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03
Dec
12

Metastasis


                            I'm through. My word. Will it go on?
                        Not gone…
                     I'm out. My dream. Will it touch anyone?
                            Not done…
              I'm blank. My kiss. Will it die unknown?
                                Not alone…
       I'm lost. Change? Good or bad, overblown.
           Do tell them, love, what all I've written down
           if but to keep some scrap of me around —
                                       not gone, not done, not alone.

10
Sep
12

Ruled Out


             When it's my time to be leaving,
                   don't take my ticket away.
             That won't make me any more yours
             nor would it spare me your grieving,
             let me be leaving when it comes my day.
             
             I've been good careful to all my telling
                   so not a word of it do I need taking back,
             not even that one done for someone else
             since who it was aimed at's done compelling
             whatever my words could've lent that attack.
             
             I won't be needing no bedside confessor
                   trying to make me sorry to go
             not first seeing to what's not ruled out,
             picking at my words like a second-guesser
             with his ideas over all mine as though.
             
             Don't hold me back from the edge of the scissors,
                   not if you know me all too well
             like you say you do, like you do say.
             Give my best to all my well-wishers
             and leave me no marker where I fell.
             
09
Sep
12

Backwater


             Here, this would've made a timely poem
             for yesterday. Hold on to it
             to read back to me tomorrow
             when I'll've forgotten it all again
             and can't think of the names for things
             and you. Let it come. Let it come.
             
             Here then, this poem will be for yesterday
             when I was taken back to the Saturday
             downtown farmer's market. So familiar
             it all used to be, according to my notes.
             The melons and eggplant and piles of beans
             and squash and brussel sprouts and fall peas.
             All the scents I should know by their names,
             the oils and the herbs and the spices.
             Faces that smile to see me back doing so well.
             I came home with onions and green tomatoes
             and cucumbers and tarragon and sweet cicely.
             
             Here then, let this poem be yesterday's
             when I bought vinegar and sea salt
             and spent the afternoon pickling.
             Preserving. For future consumption.
             Here then, this poem can be pickled,
             what was freshly picked yesterday
             salted away for tomorrow. Let it come.
             
             Here, yesterday. I sit staring at these jars.
             I won't remember them after the next time.
             I won't know their names. I'll know the words
             but won't make the connections to tastes.
             I sit and stare. I scratch a few words down
             trying to make a label. Sweet pickled onions.
             I stare more. Here, this is for yesterday
             or today, when fresh, when preserved.
             I look up today's date and add it to my label.
             Sunday. September 9. I add the year: 2012.
             I sit and wait for more words. These mean nothing.
             They will not bring back yesterday to me,
             not after I've let it come again. Let it come.
             Backwater. This stretch of water is for then.
             Let it come. Let it come. Let it come.
             
             Am I next in line on your god's hit list?
             You belong to him. He can't reach me.
             So like the others picked off one by one,
             will he send me away to lull you to sleep
             and get you to forget? Let it come.
             
             After everything has been long forgotten
             and after everyone his lies free and clear
             and after even your god's kiss has gone cold,
             here, this poem will be for the yesterday
             we'll've reached. Like the others, let it come.
             Come open this jar of sweet pickled onions
             and taste what's preserved in vinegar and salt
             and know what my simple label can't say,
             what I'll lose when your god sends me away
             and you'll say so, will say let it come.
             
             Don't take it so seriously. Here, it's a poem.
             It's not like I'm asking to to sacrifice
             who you are. It's just sweet pickled onions,
             just backwater, nothing but yesterday's poem.
             
07
Sep
12

Real Great Façade


           This business of being myself's coming off quite odd.
           Too bad it'll get all too normal once said as done:
           if it weren't so for real it would make for a great façade.
           
           An awkward silence duct-taped itself to my god
           so his mistress'll have to humor me on her own.
           This business of being myself's coming off quite odd.
           
           The bona fide is dead, long live the fraud!
           Hey, make ourselves at home and let's have fun.
           If it weren't so for real it would make for a great façade.
           
           "Which one works better? Shake your head or nod,
           roll over, turn around, jump up, sit down."
           This business of being myself's coming off quite odd.
           
           What's not to love? to sweet-talk? to applaud?
           Trust me, it'll all work out ok, hun,
           if it weren't so for real it would make for a great façade.
           
           Besides, what decent religion isn't flawed
           unless its doctrines leave its truth alone?
           If it weren't so for real it would make for a great façade.
           This business of being myself's coming off quite odd.
           
05
Sep
12

Sight Unseen


           Like how I chose the dress I'll wear,
           sight unseen, just sending them some clothes
           that fit how I expect to be, much the same
           you must have known how I would turn out.
           
           I'll trust their taste, their sense of style.
           They've been through it countless times
           so can see the bride before she's dressed up
           almost as well as the future you knew to be.
           
           Do they need to know me? I wouldn't think so
           except for what they've known all along
           would be unique once I would make it me
           as much as you must have known I would ask.
           
05
Sep
12

Switchback


             I can't go back when I've gone this far out
             beyond the ridge. I've settled my own way
             against backtrack. I'll find no other route,
             no safer bridge. What would you have me say?
             
             I've settled on my way beyond the ridge
             through hairpin curves, down steep and narrow chutes.
             What would you have me say? No safer bridge
             would suit my nerves to chase down my pursuits.
             
             Down steep and narrow chutes, through hairpin curves,
             what risk may come I'll have to take head-on.
             To chase down my pursuits would suit my nerves,
             get me back home. How far before I'm done?
             
             I'll have to take head-on what risk may come.
             I'll find no other route against backtrack.
             How far before I'm done? Get me back home.
             When I've gone this far out I can't go back.
             



formal attire

short of breath

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