Archive for the 'zzero' Category

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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13
Dec
12

Keratoplasty


       
       How nice! They'll take my eyes
           to help some stranger see as bad
       as my squint's had to make out. 
       
       Nothing else I've got's considered good
           enough to pass along. And by the time
       they realize their mistake, I'll be long gone,
       
       out of even second sight. They'll see
           what I've known all along, how I'll look
       no better than the worst you'll let me be. 
       
       
       
       
                                   [posted for Sara as of date written]
              
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.
             
08
Sep
12

J’accuse



Life, you bloodyass bastard, you've
offered me nothing of lasting value, save
one more chance to die for my love's love. 

Love, you buttugly jerk, it won't be hard
getting over you, soon enough all cured,
left behind like a misremembered word. 

Word, you worthless shit, you stink the worst
of what I came back to, lame and forced —
all you've meant to what life rid of me first. 
                            
                            
                            
                            [posted for Sara as of date written]
       
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.
           
03
Sep
12

You’re Fun


           You're fun to squeeze squeeze squeeze,
           you're fun to squeeze.
                 I love how fast it brings you to your knees,
                 so I'll have me another one of these.
           Really, you're so very fun to squeeze.
           
           You're fun to scratch scratch scratch,
           you're fun to scratch.
                 Let's get you where my parts and yours attach
                 so perfectly they're itching for their match.
           Really, you're so very fun to scratch.
           
           You're fun to bite bite bite,
           you're fun to bite.
                 You're going to be all marked up from our night
                 but so will I if you put up much fight.
           Really, you're so very fun to bite.
           
           You're fun to kiss kiss kiss,
           you're fun to kiss.
                 There's nothing you take off my lips'll miss.
                 Whatever else we do, remember this:
           really, you're so very fun to kiss.
           
           You're fun to know know know,
           you're fun to know.
                 I have such fun all over you as though
                 I've known you all along. I love you so.
           Really, you're so very fun to know.
           



formal attire

short of breath

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