An illness, or an injury, is, or can be, the body's way of expressing doubt:
my jammed fingers, your infection and grumbling gut. At the Walmart
(again), when you need the cranberry supplements, and when
I make a suggestion about what might be a better place to park the
car and sleep, you get your pills, but I get shut down.
I am hoarse, psychosomatically, and tired all the time,
and get psychosomatic headaches that reveal to me
disappointing similarities between myself and my father.
And in the Virgin River, where we're playing with the current,
crawling upstream against it, then capitulating and letting
ourselves be borne back down, my left middle and ring fingers
hit a rock and are bent almost backward. (A sharp, distinct feeling,
not past week's dead irritation.) Two days later, the bruise is still growing.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
The missing days
Everyday there is another hidden below the layers of the present.
It is the missing days of paths undiscovered.
Choices unmade and unnoticed.
Everyone has these days, the ones we wish we could change-
go back to and alter.
If we opened these days,
Like chopping through a thick skinned fruit.
We would see all the layers of days that never happened,
loves never loved
friends never met
events that were on the side of the periphery.
Those missing days, by the millions stack up
until they are seen and wondered about.
It is the missing days of paths undiscovered.
Choices unmade and unnoticed.
Everyone has these days, the ones we wish we could change-
go back to and alter.
If we opened these days,
Like chopping through a thick skinned fruit.
We would see all the layers of days that never happened,
loves never loved
friends never met
events that were on the side of the periphery.
Those missing days, by the millions stack up
until they are seen and wondered about.
Monday, July 9, 2012
JULY 9
there’s an
army outside my house.
an invisible
collection of bulldozers
steamrollers,
jackhammers,
god-knows-what-else
equipment
for ripping
up the old road
and laying
down a fresh one.
invisible
because I haven’t looked
I’ve only
listened --
it sounds like
men are
yelling and crushing
cement with
hand tools.
trucks are
beeping rhythmically
as they roll
backwards
or pour
their guts into gaping
holes in the
street.
it’s loud
but I love
to wake up
early and feel
everything
inside and around
me
rearranging
improving.
The waning days
Each day stretches slowly across a canvas.
You blink and only a second goes by.
It is waning days
Where hours are like dripping oil
That makes you wish for warp speed
Or the semblance of quick moments
You blink and only a second goes by.
It is waning days
Where hours are like dripping oil
That makes you wish for warp speed
Or the semblance of quick moments
Sunday, July 8, 2012
sand monster
ground away glass, a little
danger, a little bit, noted and hidden
safely tucked. I bought the wrong
kind of bag, a weak kind of bag.
Some one punched me, and I with a weak bag in my hands
held up like a shield, cowed by a breeze
shards of rocks past, secret fungal city
a little bit, a little danger, noted, hidden
away I went, and back, unaccomplished as ever
My nose hurts because I think someone punched me
ground away, a little, glass just a little
I think someone threw a glass of juice at me
not even liquor not even anything
but just juice, it hit me, i think, the glass
ground up away, a little glass
my nose, the wrong kind of bag
I want a window, to welcome, to see
danger, a little bit, noted and hidden
safely tucked. I bought the wrong
kind of bag, a weak kind of bag.
Some one punched me, and I with a weak bag in my hands
held up like a shield, cowed by a breeze
shards of rocks past, secret fungal city
a little bit, a little danger, noted, hidden
away I went, and back, unaccomplished as ever
My nose hurts because I think someone punched me
ground away, a little, glass just a little
I think someone threw a glass of juice at me
not even liquor not even anything
but just juice, it hit me, i think, the glass
ground up away, a little glass
my nose, the wrong kind of bag
I want a window, to welcome, to see
BIRDS
I never knew what faith was
I began to look for it at a very young age
I looked for it in the strangest places
It became my secret
I mostly looked in cities
And then in foreign cities and languages
And in run down houses
and smelly fish markets
and markets in summer where whole animals hung out
and the flies gathered
and cheese ripened to perfection
and then it got too ripe and spoiled
I looked for it in romance and in sex
The more complicated and passionate the better
I thought it must be there
I looked for it in train compartments
and sometimes in stations
believing it must be in transit
en route
and somewhere along the way
I got swept away
but I never found anything truely
resembling faith
Until people began to die
and loss hollowed me out
to practically nothing
I grew thin
and started to think about those flies
and then I saw the birds
who came as if to say
look dear
look at this,
look at me!
I began to look for it at a very young age
I looked for it in the strangest places
It became my secret
I mostly looked in cities
And then in foreign cities and languages
And in run down houses
and smelly fish markets
and markets in summer where whole animals hung out
and the flies gathered
and cheese ripened to perfection
and then it got too ripe and spoiled
I looked for it in romance and in sex
The more complicated and passionate the better
I thought it must be there
I looked for it in train compartments
and sometimes in stations
believing it must be in transit
en route
and somewhere along the way
I got swept away
but I never found anything truely
resembling faith
Until people began to die
and loss hollowed me out
to practically nothing
I grew thin
and started to think about those flies
and then I saw the birds
who came as if to say
look dear
look at this,
look at me!
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Medusa Lived Nine Hundred Years
(for Stephanie, who sings Porgy and Bess the way she hears it)
Things that you're liable, hmm hmm hmm, Bible,
It ain't necessarily so, I tell her.
She nods up and down,
disagreeing from the neck down.
She sings the next verse, barely able to keep laughter from breaking the rhythm.
The oldest man in the Western tradition is swapped for a snakehead.
She laughs and repeats in a loop
her revision of miracle for monster
patriarchy near-incarnate stoned by vipers in the brain.
Things that you're liable, hmm hmm hmm, Bible,
It ain't necessarily so, I tell her.
She nods up and down,
disagreeing from the neck down.
She sings the next verse, barely able to keep laughter from breaking the rhythm.
The oldest man in the Western tradition is swapped for a snakehead.
She laughs and repeats in a loop
her revision of miracle for monster
patriarchy near-incarnate stoned by vipers in the brain.
deep lez
a choice: forego all ritual
or pursue it
in your cut off shorts.
the tapping of the pot top
on the pot and the clicks
of the fan pull
caught in the fan
pull my mind away from
my body i admire
the holiness
of your knowledge,
the way it lets you be naked.
we are "ships in the night"
and we are going for a spin.
or pursue it
in your cut off shorts.
the tapping of the pot top
on the pot and the clicks
of the fan pull
caught in the fan
pull my mind away from
my body i admire
the holiness
of your knowledge,
the way it lets you be naked.
we are "ships in the night"
and we are going for a spin.
Visceral That
Sense that I’m on the other side of the globe, the part you spin
to, back of the world, thump thump, not as hollow as it used to be -
to, back of the world, thump thump, not as hollow as it used to be -
A string of the known through your spine, wound through the viscera, roping,
ineffectually, the yellow clouds of fat (so pulpy! so busy organizing deathdates!) -
An Earth balled on the top of paired feet, as tipped toes lift, lift,
lower... point and pull the ever ignored front of the ankle, a vie for attention –
lower... point and pull the ever ignored front of the ankle, a vie for attention –
A philosophy of spinning ears, of plates of sound, an upshower of lights and bedrock dirt
smells and rocksparks and histories too slow to know, too small and fast to be our data…
smells and rocksparks and histories too slow to know, too small and fast to be our data…
Much ballyhoo over birthdays, when the everydays earn those blown candles.
Writer's Block
i used to be afraid to write
in fear you would read my thoughts
demanding explanation
seeking answers to questions i can't answer anymore
but i realized that
following that fear only paralyses my talents
constricts my need for expression
punches holes in my soul
and i refuse to be that helpless
at your hands,
never again
so keep on reading
love me till you hate me until you love me again
remain my loyal, standing ovation, number 1 fan
even if there is only one of you
my potential exceeds your demands
and
until you hold lit candles in your hands
in my remembrance
i will... nay i must
dance as if no one is looking
sing as if you can't hear my off pitch tendencies
and write whatever the f*ck is inside of me
until my dying day.
-peace-
in fear you would read my thoughts
demanding explanation
seeking answers to questions i can't answer anymore
but i realized that
following that fear only paralyses my talents
constricts my need for expression
punches holes in my soul
and i refuse to be that helpless
at your hands,
never again
so keep on reading
love me till you hate me until you love me again
remain my loyal, standing ovation, number 1 fan
even if there is only one of you
my potential exceeds your demands
and
until you hold lit candles in your hands
in my remembrance
i will... nay i must
dance as if no one is looking
sing as if you can't hear my off pitch tendencies
and write whatever the f*ck is inside of me
until my dying day.
-peace-
More Excuses
This one says he's extremely busy
another said "I have plans"
the one who lives 3 doors away
will try to make it if he can...
I wonder what they'd have me say or do
on their big day...
should I continue offering my support OR
give excuses every step of the way...
Shonnese C.L. Coleman
www.everflowingpoetics.info
another said "I have plans"
the one who lives 3 doors away
will try to make it if he can...
I wonder what they'd have me say or do
on their big day...
should I continue offering my support OR
give excuses every step of the way...
Shonnese C.L. Coleman
www.everflowingpoetics.info
friends
when I'm not looking for anything means
txt msgs @ 2:45am: 'come over'
I know your apt's blueprint better in the dark
you're not sure which house it mine
when let's meet halfway means
weekends carved out
a packed car still sitting in the driveway
excused by just so many things you still have to do
when let's still be friends means
I call you one of every five times you come to mind
you pick up with the same odds
and you return my calls never
what, then?
when will it disintegrate -- mush in our hands
txt msgs @ 2:45am: 'come over'
I know your apt's blueprint better in the dark
you're not sure which house it mine
when let's meet halfway means
weekends carved out
a packed car still sitting in the driveway
excused by just so many things you still have to do
when let's still be friends means
I call you one of every five times you come to mind
you pick up with the same odds
and you return my calls never
what, then?
when will it disintegrate -- mush in our hands
pop quiz
which is not a community based project?
hint, the answer is: a game of solitaire
unless you are playing team solitaire
hint, the answer is: a game of solitaire
unless you are playing team solitaire
craft
she tells me i hold it all real close
I can't hear, I'm busy laying contact paper down to line the pharynx' archway
a self titled interior decorator of the oropharynx
this palate is mute and I'm on a mission to find where the next neon colors are hiding
The Collage is so 90s
formatting within the margins draws depth and tactility
like sundried tomatoes, planning and high-tops
but if the form is the sand box
gluing grains on, one at a time and
sewing the shovel into this page
is a failed project
like sundried tomatoes, planning and high-tops
but if the form is the sand box
gluing grains on, one at a time and
sewing the shovel into this page
is a failed project
I speak on top of your words
Is it not enough to point to the shrimp strewn across my front steps? we've shattered water
we build cities off this -- as I stumble, misfiring words that scale on top of yours
I've dipped into your wavelength and lept out just in time to stand on solid ground
you leap from my bed, drowning
This is not our proudest moment
Rewind: a 15 minute debate over whether to order dessert or a digestif ends in no thanks
out waitress clearly hates us almost as much as we hate ourselves
I contemplate hiding under the table as you announce,
"All done!" like a 4 year old boy that can't be trusted
I'm had at dates, you see that
the plurality of you does not comfort me
I struggle to imagine you, my audience, and not to re-imagine myself from your vantage point
do you see me?
and that is the question
How is this my best dress that I chose to pose in?
this is the question: can't we take off. everything
and then walk till this powdered mildew is sponged off our sticky skin
we build cities off this -- as I stumble, misfiring words that scale on top of yours
I've dipped into your wavelength and lept out just in time to stand on solid ground
you leap from my bed, drowning
This is not our proudest moment
Rewind: a 15 minute debate over whether to order dessert or a digestif ends in no thanks
out waitress clearly hates us almost as much as we hate ourselves
I contemplate hiding under the table as you announce,
"All done!" like a 4 year old boy that can't be trusted
I'm had at dates, you see that
the plurality of you does not comfort me
I struggle to imagine you, my audience, and not to re-imagine myself from your vantage point
do you see me?
and that is the question
How is this my best dress that I chose to pose in?
this is the question: can't we take off. everything
and then walk till this powdered mildew is sponged off our sticky skin
5 0f 7 - 24 hours as a dad
they're faces always reflects
the beauty of the past
where i was, who i wanted to be
they play from the moment they're eyes open
my mornings begin with tugs at my loss
pushes on my chest
wake up daddy, wake up daddy
with a groan and fake yawns i rise
to tickle their bellys
so i can hear the most perfect sound
my children's laughter
hugs and kisses good morning
breakfast and story time
start our day
an hour of they're tv as they say
an hour of work for me
more playtime till lunchtime
exhausted they settle in for naps
and i start back at work
two hours of quiet
before they invade my time again
like a miniature army of wants
park time, where we find ourselves
dripping wet from the sprinklers
and I've yet to not see them as
the ground that keeps me steady
on the walk home after three hours of play
we talk about the future
they can only see tomorrow
and its a busy day to them
dinner bath time and bedtime
they are finally asleep
a picture of slumbering perfection
I'm at home here, in their presence
the clock arrives at my bedtime
i lie down next to them
and drift off to dream of everything being better
I awake again
to tugs of my loss
pushes on my chest
daddy wake up daddy wake up
the beauty of the past
where i was, who i wanted to be
they play from the moment they're eyes open
my mornings begin with tugs at my loss
pushes on my chest
wake up daddy, wake up daddy
with a groan and fake yawns i rise
to tickle their bellys
so i can hear the most perfect sound
my children's laughter
hugs and kisses good morning
breakfast and story time
start our day
an hour of they're tv as they say
an hour of work for me
more playtime till lunchtime
exhausted they settle in for naps
and i start back at work
two hours of quiet
before they invade my time again
like a miniature army of wants
park time, where we find ourselves
dripping wet from the sprinklers
and I've yet to not see them as
the ground that keeps me steady
on the walk home after three hours of play
we talk about the future
they can only see tomorrow
and its a busy day to them
dinner bath time and bedtime
they are finally asleep
a picture of slumbering perfection
I'm at home here, in their presence
the clock arrives at my bedtime
i lie down next to them
and drift off to dream of everything being better
I awake again
to tugs of my loss
pushes on my chest
daddy wake up daddy wake up
THE NEAR DEATH OF CAPTAIN COOK/REALITY VERBATIM/JULY 6
Oh, my ex-girlfriend was a chair specialist, the top scholar in her field.
We start off trying to make mojitos, but then I’m just drinking
jack and lemonade
under a yellow moon.
Then all my skin is warm. Then I think I’ve passed some critical point.
How many bug bites can I even hold? How many conversation like this –
I’d like to rewrite the arrangement. From now on my job is mostly about sunbathing.
From now on we only agree to see each other
so long as we’re really cracking up.
Okay?
My dad sits in the back alone. The magic girl puts her hand on his chest
to thank a compliment. Next door there are grunts and growls.
My neighbor is a perfect swimmer, missing her much younger boyfriend
more and more each day.
Tomorrow is the auction.
And my life writhes, like water chained off
by beach rope.
timing
the fine print was settling on my lungs when
it was already time to leave the bar, no more
take a breather i'll be ready in five, no:
slap down a tip grasp bags and bust,
til it's home in a hot hot kitchen.
with dinner ready, and everything.
it was already time to leave the bar, no more
take a breather i'll be ready in five, no:
slap down a tip grasp bags and bust,
til it's home in a hot hot kitchen.
with dinner ready, and everything.
Friday, July 6, 2012
you’re as lovely as the day is long
with these
long summer evenings
everything
feels like a euphemism
but last
night we really did
get off work
early
cash our
paychecks on broadway
let’s do something fun I said
so we
considered the waterfront ferris wheel
but the
bowling alley was closer
and I didn’t
mean to but I beat him
three games
in a row
strike after
strike
the ten
pound ball
sailed a red
streak dead center
knocking
over all the pins
hard fast
and smooth
as if I knew
what I was doing
but I don’t
Heat is all I think about
Today
And everyday afterward
I think of that heat
And how it never ends.
Tomorrow
It comes back again
Never fading and returning
But blazing for every hour
Every night
Until the world is just hot
And everyday afterward
I think of that heat
And how it never ends.
Tomorrow
It comes back again
Never fading and returning
But blazing for every hour
Every night
Until the world is just hot
Co-Worker
Energy is an interesting thing...
you know...the kind that exudes from your being...
vibration that surrounds your physical but rarely noticed...
that swag or uptight kind of position...you know...
the clinging all over you like fuzzy lint energy...
Shonnese C.L. Coleman
www.everflowingpoetics.info
you know...the kind that exudes from your being...
vibration that surrounds your physical but rarely noticed...
that swag or uptight kind of position...you know...
the clinging all over you like fuzzy lint energy...
Shonnese C.L. Coleman
www.everflowingpoetics.info
Bald Eagle
" Your whole life must be one of longing"
(anonymous, The Cloud of Unknowing, 14th C)
Today the sun is out
and the longing heats up -
intensifies.
Look at the crows up there
they get it.
They fucking embody it.
The absolute.
And as we lay on the beach earlier today
blissfully happy with the sun in our eyes
we saw the shape coming our way
over the water
from the west
and it kept coming
and we began to decipher
and then recognize it.
The longing.
July 4, 2012
(anonymous, The Cloud of Unknowing, 14th C)
Today the sun is out
and the longing heats up -
intensifies.
Look at the crows up there
they get it.
They fucking embody it.
The absolute.
And as we lay on the beach earlier today
blissfully happy with the sun in our eyes
we saw the shape coming our way
over the water
from the west
and it kept coming
and we began to decipher
and then recognize it.
The longing.
July 4, 2012
EMBROIDERY (JULY 5)
In the movie the child fears he’s no real guy. Meanwhile,
Jonathan makes thread loops to mimic other materials of man. Gravel, Sand, Cement.
It’s only 7:40, already the coffee smells like meat. I just
realized something, says my dad, heat and meat, that’s all. I say, help
me help you. I will gather the closest bows and pull them into
the fire pile. I will make a joke from a twig, a knot, and leave it on the road
for someone walking. Anyways. I went to the museum to see new stitches – I guess
back then ladies in the woods used cloth like paper – valentine quilts, family
flags in autumn tones. Meanwhile, Jonathan makes MFA loops, simple words on
starch white displayed as works in progress. Meanwhile, Aaron notices the
father daughter cook out, how I break buns while my dad flips beef and buffalo.
But it’s no thing. In the movie the child shakes, it’s not his fault he’s angry
still, throwing things against the wall. I will stitch a fox for my mom. She will understand
my method. The front looks good, the back’s a mess. Sometimes it takes forever.
Sometimes I smooth thread with spit all night.
JULY 4
He took us to where the river
rushes – pools to falls –
and we swam,
and met a man,
with two bags of fish
weighing down his eyes.
That night,
the folks I lead around by rope
are ironic at the sky.
I have to walk away –
back to the parking lot,
where America cranes shameless.
Thick forearms clutching
little stomachs,
and hoods for rain,
and plaster skin,
red with booze
and mountain sun.
Look at you, country,
embarrassing us with all your
colors.
We pull our arms right
through
your sleeves,
quickly in the bathroom stall -
scan the bar, then
leave.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Sit Not With Me
The one bite of undercooked hot dog,
the one assertion of singular duality,
the one day of vague uneasiness,
the one face I'd rather not face,
the one room too small for such dis-ease,
the long night of undigesting....
patriotism never sits well with me.
the one assertion of singular duality,
the one day of vague uneasiness,
the one face I'd rather not face,
the one room too small for such dis-ease,
the long night of undigesting....
patriotism never sits well with me.
who am i to feel so free?
cut the cordless
wait for warning
strike on box to
remember missing
sugared tonsils
full, and holes
the full,
the whole,
the moon.
wait for warning
strike on box to
remember missing
sugared tonsils
full, and holes
the full,
the whole,
the moon.
Sparkle
The sparkle in the water
glimmers
like your eyes
when you
smile
at
me
and I
swim in your
laughter
the sparkle in the water
glimmers
like your eyes
when you
smile
at
me
and I
swim in your
laughter
the sparkle in the water
Home
couch around alone, and around around
spin on wine-stained axis, myself a pivot, super-strong
I have a mirror so high it shows the top of my head, and love is about
not changing that, or wanting to
so high the couch now, reaching to the mirror, afloat above the table,
chairs, somehow, absent, zippy little things
this is what it means to be one person in a big room
one person in the big room, to let go of the others
spin on wine-stained axis, myself a pivot, super-strong
I have a mirror so high it shows the top of my head, and love is about
not changing that, or wanting to
so high the couch now, reaching to the mirror, afloat above the table,
chairs, somehow, absent, zippy little things
this is what it means to be one person in a big room
one person in the big room, to let go of the others
4 of 7 stay at home daddy woes...luv it though
I find i have very little to say
except when i speak of my kids
even with unrelated strangers i often
drop into rehearsed conversations of my kids
hey did you see the knicks game
nah i was watching nick jr with my kids
hey bro do you happen to have any spare change
nah man i have two kids
its funny now when I'm writing it out
but almost every time i find myself thinking
why did i say all that,
why was i talking about my kids
when the conversation was about the political climate in the spain
did i suffer a mental break,
where my life stopped
and i just became the recorder for every event
of my kids,
a parental parrot ready to repeat their every movement
wats going on man
my son rode the swings today and he did it all by himself
homie we hanging out tonite right
nah my daughter wants to watch kicking it with me tonite
anything for my baby girl man
adult time is now next time next time
i no longer know what songs are out now
unless they're sung by miley cyrus, selena gomez, or bridgit mender
this must be the matrix effect
where is my red pill
i want to unplug
where is the doctor
please cut this umbilical cord
I want to sound my age
not sound like I'm on a
disney stage
except when i speak of my kids
even with unrelated strangers i often
drop into rehearsed conversations of my kids
hey did you see the knicks game
nah i was watching nick jr with my kids
hey bro do you happen to have any spare change
nah man i have two kids
its funny now when I'm writing it out
but almost every time i find myself thinking
why did i say all that,
why was i talking about my kids
when the conversation was about the political climate in the spain
did i suffer a mental break,
where my life stopped
and i just became the recorder for every event
of my kids,
a parental parrot ready to repeat their every movement
wats going on man
my son rode the swings today and he did it all by himself
homie we hanging out tonite right
nah my daughter wants to watch kicking it with me tonite
anything for my baby girl man
adult time is now next time next time
i no longer know what songs are out now
unless they're sung by miley cyrus, selena gomez, or bridgit mender
this must be the matrix effect
where is my red pill
i want to unplug
where is the doctor
please cut this umbilical cord
I want to sound my age
not sound like I'm on a
disney stage
ether in the age of higgs boson
When one pays 2.50 to get in the ether and bat at indifferent ether for undefined blocks in any directions, when after time one can't control one exits but has been confused and numbed and coming up from what was underground it seems one's in the hot aboveground swells,
an unbodied past moment who appears to mention "it's been ages" and agrees it's been "too long" as if to reassure one time is measurable, the subway linear, so but one has a supper and a drink seemingly in locations, one's old friend takes my hand my body has to think there is a body, a best and former friend, a gas, a suddenly asserted stomach there and otherwise I'm there.
an unbodied past moment who appears to mention "it's been ages" and agrees it's been "too long" as if to reassure one time is measurable, the subway linear, so but one has a supper and a drink seemingly in locations, one's old friend takes my hand my body has to think there is a body, a best and former friend, a gas, a suddenly asserted stomach there and otherwise I'm there.
At the Berkeley Marina the night of July 4
Flapping and turning like a kite that lost its stream
jerking in circles
A bat!
If we could have enormous fruit bats here.
If the moonlight and the street flares flashed brown into silver.
No, keep watching.
A bird.
An enormous package of a bird.
Its face a fat dowel-end
cut off mid turn
spinning in widening, falling courses.
Free from the vice, a panic.
White number 5.
Rare for me to meet you wild.
1,2,3 in the tree in Bharatpur,
snuggled pygmies holding court.
4 here in Berkeley, light-time insomniac,
orange tape announced your wilting chicks.
Now 5, tumbling over the marina.
On the hill humans are lined up like trees.
Strange bird in painful flight
I don't know how it will go for you.
The hills are lined with people
assembled like a strike.
SYNERGY
small town fire
alarm
my hands are
burning
my head is
burning
I can see
the hills all
lit up
shining with
the day
the fire must
be
just out of
sight
I can hear
alarm bells
ringing and
singing away
down
country roads
my own blood
is hot
rushing
around under
the covers
of the guest bed
I want to
move towards the fire
put my eyes
on it, smother it
with water
I reach my
hand
out to the
glass
on the
nightstand
I bring it
in and take a gulp
we do what
we can
july 4
i think i talked to you more today than have in the past twenty years,
says a woman who i've called my grandma - though i'm not sure why sometimes.
her children climbed a sand hill, now a strip mall emptied out over the years
we ate no hot dogs this fourth
says a woman who i've called my grandma - though i'm not sure why sometimes.
her children climbed a sand hill, now a strip mall emptied out over the years
we ate no hot dogs this fourth
July 3
a beetle in the dirt expanding
the boom headed down the valley
bounced off the ridges
here the roads all connect
clove to cherry hill to
berme to towpath
kyserike to old kings to res plaus
mettacahonts to boodle hill to
queens highway to
samsonville.
the boom headed down the valley
bounced off the ridges
here the roads all connect
clove to cherry hill to
berme to towpath
kyserike to old kings to res plaus
mettacahonts to boodle hill to
queens highway to
samsonville.
summer to do list (July 5th)
learn every shade of green
and love them all
cultivate freckles
keep the smell of bonfire smoke
in your hair for days
get better at flip turns
reaching the end of the lane and smoothly
reversing
A Good Morning Haiku
The day after gives
Fire-Crackers and Rib Bones
glued to the front stoop
Shonnese C.L. Coleman
www.everflowingpoetics.info
Fire-Crackers and Rib Bones
glued to the front stoop
Shonnese C.L. Coleman
www.everflowingpoetics.info
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
am I precious to be peeling only my flakes off me
and really only drifting like sham princess fanciness
on accident, but when really it’s deliberate
but quick, so it seems on accident,
by accident, am I pursuing the right loneliness,
should I be lonely because of distances,
not difference?
what a fuss to make a splash,
what a ruffling of hemlines, a curl
of hairs, a flickering
of constancies, I ship my awful tendencies
to islands, privately,
I put my goods and glories on display.
untitled.
the milk curdling down below belly
entered in til it's back behind teeth
eyes closed not to gag on
souring sweetness.
if this day could be
perfectly
placed,
between the low times
and the high times,
the blue place
and the blueblockers
from the corner store
i would think
about swallowing.
entered in til it's back behind teeth
eyes closed not to gag on
souring sweetness.
if this day could be
perfectly
placed,
between the low times
and the high times,
the blue place
and the blueblockers
from the corner store
i would think
about swallowing.
Written During Fireworks, Shivering Pup Burrowed In My Armpit
Last night i woke from a dream, i think, and in that dream
i think i was telling a co-worker at some unknown job
that the actions of another worker, perhaps the supervisor,
made me so angry that i could stab him to death with a
snowglobe. And the dream was very slow until i said
the word, "snowglobe" and then it got very fast, with
distaste and fear on the co-worker's face, a huge hot flash
of embarassment over my skin, a sure sense that I had
blown it now, i was really in trouble like never before,
and also a snort of blubby giggles, undignified, because
it was so foolish to even take that sort of threat seriously,
and all the emotions and reactions were speeding around
and through me, like the final surge of fireworks on the
fourth of july, like the crazyjoywave in all the physicists' bosoms
now that they have the Higgs' boson.
i think i was telling a co-worker at some unknown job
that the actions of another worker, perhaps the supervisor,
made me so angry that i could stab him to death with a
snowglobe. And the dream was very slow until i said
the word, "snowglobe" and then it got very fast, with
distaste and fear on the co-worker's face, a huge hot flash
of embarassment over my skin, a sure sense that I had
blown it now, i was really in trouble like never before,
and also a snort of blubby giggles, undignified, because
it was so foolish to even take that sort of threat seriously,
and all the emotions and reactions were speeding around
and through me, like the final surge of fireworks on the
fourth of july, like the crazyjoywave in all the physicists' bosoms
now that they have the Higgs' boson.
Juty 4th Retro Reflections
It's not really my holiday.
Celebrating the independence
of a country
that denies independence
to "territories"
occupying lands
not their own
interferring in
people having the
right to choose
freely for themselves
while blowing
the trumpet
of being
great liberators
seems a bit
insane
The only thing more insane is to pretend
and I'm not about to
not as the last members
of my family who are
left in Puerto Rico
make their way
to Florida
to escape
the joblessness,
poverty and crime
of Fajardo
not as Oscar Lopez Rivera
continues to do time
in a U.S. Federal prision
for daring to fight
for the indpendence of Puerto Rico
31 years too long
not convicted of violence
only the conviction
that no one has the right
to govern another
that Puerto Rico
be a free and sovereign nation
I don't want to put down your holiday
or rain on your fireworks / the glorification of war
is so entertaining
Isn't it?
colorful explosions / of light against
the darkness / numbs the pain
instead I choose to ponder the words
of Frederick Douglass
"What to the slave is your 4th of July?"
as a bop my head to the Chuck D
and Flava Flav...classic
Picture me celebratin on the 4th of July
If you heard I was celebratin, that's a...
The 4th of July
has not been my holiday since
the Bicentennial...
that long ago
far away / hot summer
of 1976
where fire hydrants
and lamp posts
were painted red, white and blue
in this metropolis where you can
still in some forgotten corners
of soon to be gentrified "hood"
find the peeling rusty paint
of that long ago time.
It was my country then
the place where I was born
and the 4th of July
was my holiday too
when we sat on the sweaty
plastic covered sofa
in our Puerto Rican
living room
(before I knew
I was Puerto Rican
and in my child's mind
Puerto Rico
was the palm tree paradise
found in faded pictures
in my Abuela's photo album...
a tropical island somewhere
near Hawaii)
as we watched
Little House on the Prairie
George Jefferson / Happy Days
and Archy Bunker
and laughed
while we ate hot dogs
or franks as my mother called them
and pork n beans
and Bicentennial
Coca Cola
and Twinkies
All that mattered that summer
was the sparklers we were allowed to swirl
on the steps of our porch
in between games of jacks
and jump rope
hopscotch
black and blue
from the neon bangles
that we clacked
CLICK CLACK
CLICK CLACK
red light / green light
1 / 2 / 3
HOT PEAS AND BUTTA!!
COME AND GET YO' SUPPA!!
excitement of the red, white and blue popsicles we sucked
Rockets and Bombs to turn our little tongues
red dye # 40 carcinogenic red
yummy
skipping to the music
of Mr. Softee
in front of 645 Barretto
catching fire flies
in plastic cups
in the Garden
That long ago / far away
hot summer
when NYC was hot
and litter decorated the streets
graffiti glorified the trains
All the give a hoot / don't pollute
commericals and songs of what
makes America great...
I'd like to teach the word to sing
in perfect harmony...
Bicenntenial minutes
no one paid attention
to the Bronx burning
in the patriotic fever
of a party that they began to
plan before I was even born
a celebration that lasted 2 years...
a few years shy
of other shocking images
on the 6 o'clock news
footage of burning American flags
American hostages in Iran
and the Grand Ayatollah
looking scary
to children and grown ups alike
and how we were taught
that the hatred that people
had for us had nothing
to do with
what the United States
was in the world
but simply
because America was so great
in a time when COINTELPRO
was the stealth
of the machine
that choked
the life
out of the
revolution
that was not televised
Today
I'm feeling nostalgic
for the holidays
when my mother was alive
and I am drawn
to her old collection of
cassettes
finding one
labled
July 4, 1993
Hector
Paulito Vega
Holy Moley Guacamole
ANDANDO
Paultio spinnin
Hector's tunes
in between
shout outs to Orchard Beach
and the Old Timer's picnic
in El Barrio
with a call in interview
with Yomo Toro
GOLD
and I'm reminded
of so many
beautiful
glorious Sunday
afternoons and holidays
like the 4th of July
that Mami loved so much
stewing beans on the stove
dancing salsa
Palladium style in the living
Listening to the cassette
as I cook dinner for my father
I remember the summer
that Hector Lavoe died
and going to
Frank Campbell's
Funeral Parlor
with Wilson
to marvel
at the line of fans
that wound
around a whole
city block
and went for blocks more
I definitely knew
I was Puerto Rican
by then,
Thank God!
I'm listening
to Hector's music
remembering
my mother
and the essence
of what truly
makes a holiday
a holiday...
the love of family
and being together
and I'm grateful
for the time
for having it be
that we Puerto Ricans
gathered on the 4th of July
that this family gathered
Fernandez y
Rivera
in the backyard / and were together
on our front porch / with Abuela
and Titi Ana / on beach chairs
and we were together
down by the park
on Bronx Boulevard
watching the fire works
cherry bombs / roman candles
firecrackers and sparklers
with our big brother
together
the birth
and after the birth
of my nieces and nephews
their childhoods
and all the fun we had
together
and yes
sparklers and
all the memories
of us being
together
making me remember
the togetherness
of my family
and realize
and appreciate
the true
meaning of
freedom
not a place
but a state
of mind
Get Into America").
Celebrating the independence
of a country
that denies independence
to "territories"
occupying lands
not their own
interferring in
people having the
right to choose
freely for themselves
while blowing
the trumpet
of being
great liberators
seems a bit
insane
The only thing more insane is to pretend
and I'm not about to
not as the last members
of my family who are
left in Puerto Rico
make their way
to Florida
to escape
the joblessness,
poverty and crime
of Fajardo
not as Oscar Lopez Rivera
continues to do time
in a U.S. Federal prision
for daring to fight
for the indpendence of Puerto Rico
31 years too long
not convicted of violence
only the conviction
that no one has the right
to govern another
that Puerto Rico
be a free and sovereign nation
I don't want to put down your holiday
or rain on your fireworks / the glorification of war
is so entertaining
Isn't it?
colorful explosions / of light against
the darkness / numbs the pain
instead I choose to ponder the words
of Frederick Douglass
"What to the slave is your 4th of July?"
as a bop my head to the Chuck D
and Flava Flav...classic
Picture me celebratin on the 4th of July
If you heard I was celebratin, that's a...
The 4th of July
has not been my holiday since
the Bicentennial...
that long ago
far away / hot summer
of 1976
where fire hydrants
and lamp posts
were painted red, white and blue
in this metropolis where you can
still in some forgotten corners
of soon to be gentrified "hood"
find the peeling rusty paint
of that long ago time.
It was my country then
the place where I was born
and the 4th of July
was my holiday too
when we sat on the sweaty
plastic covered sofa
in our Puerto Rican
living room
(before I knew
I was Puerto Rican
and in my child's mind
Puerto Rico
was the palm tree paradise
found in faded pictures
in my Abuela's photo album...
a tropical island somewhere
near Hawaii)
as we watched
Little House on the Prairie
George Jefferson / Happy Days
and Archy Bunker
and laughed
while we ate hot dogs
or franks as my mother called them
and pork n beans
and Bicentennial
Coca Cola
and Twinkies
All that mattered that summer
was the sparklers we were allowed to swirl
on the steps of our porch
in between games of jacks
and jump rope
hopscotch
black and blue
from the neon bangles
that we clacked
CLICK CLACK
CLICK CLACK
red light / green light
1 / 2 / 3
HOT PEAS AND BUTTA!!
COME AND GET YO' SUPPA!!
excitement of the red, white and blue popsicles we sucked
Rockets and Bombs to turn our little tongues
red dye # 40 carcinogenic red
yummy
skipping to the music
of Mr. Softee
in front of 645 Barretto
catching fire flies
in plastic cups
in the Garden
That long ago / far away
hot summer
when NYC was hot
and litter decorated the streets
graffiti glorified the trains
All the give a hoot / don't pollute
commericals and songs of what
makes America great...
I'd like to teach the word to sing
in perfect harmony...
Bicenntenial minutes
no one paid attention
to the Bronx burning
in the patriotic fever
of a party that they began to
plan before I was even born
a celebration that lasted 2 years...
a few years shy
of other shocking images
on the 6 o'clock news
footage of burning American flags
American hostages in Iran
and the Grand Ayatollah
looking scary
to children and grown ups alike
and how we were taught
that the hatred that people
had for us had nothing
to do with
what the United States
was in the world
but simply
because America was so great
in a time when COINTELPRO
was the stealth
of the machine
that choked
the life
out of the
revolution
that was not televised
Today
I'm feeling nostalgic
for the holidays
when my mother was alive
and I am drawn
to her old collection of
cassettes
finding one
labled
July 4, 1993
Hector
Paulito Vega
Holy Moley Guacamole
ANDANDO
Paultio spinnin
Hector's tunes
in between
shout outs to Orchard Beach
and the Old Timer's picnic
in El Barrio
with a call in interview
with Yomo Toro
GOLD
and I'm reminded
of so many
beautiful
glorious Sunday
afternoons and holidays
like the 4th of July
that Mami loved so much
stewing beans on the stove
dancing salsa
Palladium style in the living
Listening to the cassette
as I cook dinner for my father
I remember the summer
that Hector Lavoe died
and going to
Frank Campbell's
Funeral Parlor
with Wilson
to marvel
at the line of fans
that wound
around a whole
city block
and went for blocks more
I definitely knew
I was Puerto Rican
by then,
Thank God!
I'm listening
to Hector's music
remembering
my mother
and the essence
of what truly
makes a holiday
a holiday...
the love of family
and being together
and I'm grateful
for the time
for having it be
that we Puerto Ricans
gathered on the 4th of July
that this family gathered
Fernandez y
Rivera
in the backyard / and were together
on our front porch / with Abuela
and Titi Ana / on beach chairs
and we were together
down by the park
on Bronx Boulevard
watching the fire works
cherry bombs / roman candles
firecrackers and sparklers
with our big brother
together
the birth
and after the birth
of my nieces and nephews
their childhoods
and all the fun we had
together
and yes
sparklers and
all the memories
of us being
together
making me remember
the togetherness
of my family
and realize
and appreciate
the true
meaning of
freedom
not a place
but a state
of mind
Get Into America").
If I were a robot
If I were a robot
I would touch your hair
Gently and touch your face
And look at you with
love
If I were a robot
There would be no doubt of my sincerety
My commitment
My devotion
As I am but a man
Held together by what is left of my organic
And synthetic
components
I do not know what more I can do
To hold us together as I am in pieces
Yearning to comprehend all that I am
All that you are
A connection between mere mortals
If I were a robot
I could find all the answers
Save the day in heroic fashion
Comprehend all the infinite questions
My components are failing
I am not sure which part of me is dying
Yet the pain seems so real
Too deep to compute.
July 4, 2012
JULY 4th
in the
oldest tradition
I know I am
trying
something
new --
letting the
boundaries blur
inviting
everyone in
I’m like my
own little country today
I’m having a
party
I’m inviting
everyone
well, nearly
--
I’m like my
own little country today
so I’m
calling the shots
it’s the
oldest tradition I know
I let the
back go wild
stopped
weeding just to see
what would
grow – oh boy
you wouldn’t
believe
what I can
grow
without
trying
it’s the
oldest tradition I know
everything
sprouted and spread out
grew up over
my head
like I was
small again
I’m like my
own little country today
my plants
have a mind of their own
they don’t
even need me
to let them
in
I’m trying
something new
July 3rd
i want to eat in the next hour and i will
on summer porches
sitting and drinking
we pass the new baby and
the bowl; grill eggplant
watch the steam rise
from our corn. we will stay
out here until the dark falls
around us, the light from the kitchen
touching the soft edges of our faces
this is now. we all love now and
we are terrified of now. we will speak
of utopia and imagination, of the best
way to get cum stains out of our sheets
and what book did you tell me to read
about bodies. we are bruised and manicured.
we trade cocktails: taste mine
across the bar, our legs dangle off stools
our stories rise and fall, secrets and punchlines
the rain will come and we will hold each other
laughing. the sun will rise and we will call
each other, breaking. the moon will wax
and we will blame and celebrate her.
and we will blame and celebrate ourselves,
it is summer and we are hungry. the sky
stays light and we breathe in deeply.
on summer porches
sitting and drinking
we pass the new baby and
the bowl; grill eggplant
watch the steam rise
from our corn. we will stay
out here until the dark falls
around us, the light from the kitchen
touching the soft edges of our faces
this is now. we all love now and
we are terrified of now. we will speak
of utopia and imagination, of the best
way to get cum stains out of our sheets
and what book did you tell me to read
about bodies. we are bruised and manicured.
we trade cocktails: taste mine
across the bar, our legs dangle off stools
our stories rise and fall, secrets and punchlines
the rain will come and we will hold each other
laughing. the sun will rise and we will call
each other, breaking. the moon will wax
and we will blame and celebrate her.
and we will blame and celebrate ourselves,
it is summer and we are hungry. the sky
stays light and we breathe in deeply.
July 4
Despised as I am,
I always still won a war.
Today we are doing only pencil wagers.
if there are any old tickets please let us know.
i appreciate if there are no argument, no butting.
Do you want to be the referee? Or help me make something with this leftover stuff.
I will help us keep track of everything. If a hat flys out the window, and then on the flip side, watching a cloud pass by and not giving a shit if its going to drop rain or no.
I always still won a war.
Today we are doing only pencil wagers.
if there are any old tickets please let us know.
i appreciate if there are no argument, no butting.
Do you want to be the referee? Or help me make something with this leftover stuff.
I will help us keep track of everything. If a hat flys out the window, and then on the flip side, watching a cloud pass by and not giving a shit if its going to drop rain or no.
Trade-Off
To have something...anything, a particular thing...
way of being...tranquility...
perhaps more than a state of mind...yes...
I forfeit temporary play-time...
for a chance at stacking more dollar bills in my closet...
don't hate...jump on board...the movement is medicine...free the mind...
Shonnese C.L. Coleman
www.everflowingpoetics.info
way of being...tranquility...
perhaps more than a state of mind...yes...
I forfeit temporary play-time...
for a chance at stacking more dollar bills in my closet...
don't hate...jump on board...the movement is medicine...free the mind...
Shonnese C.L. Coleman
www.everflowingpoetics.info
3 of 7 untitled
i stand on the beach alone
looking back at the footprints of my path
feeling the wash of the waves crashing about my feet
beyond the sands lies the life i want to leave behind
I've said my last goodbyes
kissed the cheeks of those I've loved
held the hands of those whose company i should miss
the sky is painted crimson and grey
turning toward the openness of the water
i imagine what lies ahead of me
i dive in and begin to swim to the point of drowning
arms and legs exhausted, there is nothing of strength left within me
my lungs are tired and heavy
i turn once more toward my past
i whisper a silent sorry
and allow myself to be taken under
by instinct i try to hold my breath
by instinct i fight to save my life
drowning is a torturous means of death
nothing is left for me in the life I've lead
so death is welcomed
like a long lost friend
found again seeking a new beginning
i close my eyes and hug my friend
and accept the end
looking back at the footprints of my path
feeling the wash of the waves crashing about my feet
beyond the sands lies the life i want to leave behind
I've said my last goodbyes
kissed the cheeks of those I've loved
held the hands of those whose company i should miss
the sky is painted crimson and grey
turning toward the openness of the water
i imagine what lies ahead of me
i dive in and begin to swim to the point of drowning
arms and legs exhausted, there is nothing of strength left within me
my lungs are tired and heavy
i turn once more toward my past
i whisper a silent sorry
and allow myself to be taken under
by instinct i try to hold my breath
by instinct i fight to save my life
drowning is a torturous means of death
nothing is left for me in the life I've lead
so death is welcomed
like a long lost friend
found again seeking a new beginning
i close my eyes and hug my friend
and accept the end
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
The T.T. of the California Quail
(w/gratitude to the Anderson/Coppola film Moonrise Kingdom )
"T-t-t-t-t-t!" I chirp to hear my mate laugh
Tied a clump of hair with a rubber
band an inch above my forehead
Bobbed into the room looking
shyly beneath the teardrop topknot
itchy hair switching my face
Prompt:"What bird are you?"
Line: "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"
Review: "This answerve startled the quail ingenue."
"T-t-t-t-t-t!" I chirp to hear my mate laugh
Tied a clump of hair with a rubber
band an inch above my forehead
Bobbed into the room looking
shyly beneath the teardrop topknot
itchy hair switching my face
Prompt:"What bird are you?"
Line: "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"
Review: "This answerve startled the quail ingenue."
Doughboy
Doughboy, beige puddles
on your white back
and a nose the color of lips.
Crossing and recrossing,
driving since three am,
testing out the knee.
Doors keep closing
and it's not paranoia,
they're to keep you out.
Other doors open,
night and dancers get in,
and you're incorrect
to warn us.
Still, relax.
Tomorrow there will be a parade.
UV drums and litter,
meat smells from meat alive and dead,
and you mustn't worry about any of it.
The road's not needing us
anytime soon.
So curl in a
light-brown
doughnut shape,
and though you're only half-glazed,
you're ready.
Feel the highway
vibrating
in your stay still dreams.
on your white back
and a nose the color of lips.
Crossing and recrossing,
driving since three am,
testing out the knee.
Doors keep closing
and it's not paranoia,
they're to keep you out.
Other doors open,
night and dancers get in,
and you're incorrect
to warn us.
Still, relax.
Tomorrow there will be a parade.
UV drums and litter,
meat smells from meat alive and dead,
and you mustn't worry about any of it.
The road's not needing us
anytime soon.
So curl in a
light-brown
doughnut shape,
and though you're only half-glazed,
you're ready.
Feel the highway
vibrating
in your stay still dreams.
GIRL
so this girl swoops down
into my face screaming
"you fucked me up!"
but the rain's coming down
so hard that whatever came out
of her mouth next got drowned out
but i could see her face
breaking up into a thousand little
pieces and reconstructing
into different faces
like into a boy's face
then into a different girl's face
then into a woman's face
and into a dog's face
into a snake face
and i got what was happening
beneath the display of rage
and violence ready to occur
so i took her into my arms
and she felt my heart pound
i was so scared but couldn't
let go then until we turned into
a lamb's tail
into a swallow
into a flea
into a split pea
and then we were nothing
and then we were nothing
but the essence of she
into my face screaming
"you fucked me up!"
but the rain's coming down
so hard that whatever came out
of her mouth next got drowned out
but i could see her face
breaking up into a thousand little
pieces and reconstructing
into different faces
like into a boy's face
then into a different girl's face
then into a woman's face
and into a dog's face
into a snake face
and i got what was happening
beneath the display of rage
and violence ready to occur
so i took her into my arms
and she felt my heart pound
i was so scared but couldn't
let go then until we turned into
a lamb's tail
into a swallow
into a flea
into a split pea
and then we were nothing
and then we were nothing
but the essence of she
THE SKYLIGHTS TELL US WHY (JULY 3)
Inching at it, whatever
it might be.
Dot line identifying
trouble spots
all over your body,
the room
a damp landmine
of outfits.
Once I wore a pink silk shirt,
once I walked the streets
in flower cloth
and knew I did not want
to be there.
I weed whack until
the ferns fly,
the moss rips,
the dirt spews,
and then there’s just
an empty crack
that looks
mistaken.
2 of 7 Untitled
I can recall the days my voice shackled
behind fears of being heard
wanting and wishing i could speak
louder than a whisper
I spent years in silence
till one day i was free
i can't say when the key was handed me
but i remember the full sound of my voice
rushing past my eardrums
and i loved it
the melody
the pitch
the boom
of my voice
was like a song i had been dying to hear
It has now been ten years
and still the sound of my voice
is full, strong
It is still a fantastic song
but now I can share it
I can send it out
I am finally HEARD
behind fears of being heard
wanting and wishing i could speak
louder than a whisper
I spent years in silence
till one day i was free
i can't say when the key was handed me
but i remember the full sound of my voice
rushing past my eardrums
and i loved it
the melody
the pitch
the boom
of my voice
was like a song i had been dying to hear
It has now been ten years
and still the sound of my voice
is full, strong
It is still a fantastic song
but now I can share it
I can send it out
I am finally HEARD
Mi poemita de anteayer
Mi poemita de anteayer
nació en el agua dulce
entre los relámpagos
de tus besos
y el trueno de
tus suspiros
nació en el agua dulce
entre los relámpagos
de tus besos
y el trueno de
tus suspiros
en un lago de paz
lleno de mi alegria
en el orgasmo de la vida
tú y yo
unidos
IF YOU'RE NOT CAREFUL
I’m stronger
than I look.
I know
because I’ve seen
myself from
the inside
wimping out
and out and
out
to the edges.
don’t make
me jump
into
anything.
even water,
which I love.
if you’re
not careful
you might
mistake anxiety
for
excitement.
it could always
be worse.
when I can
I take
a
spontaneous nap.
me and the
girls wear sunglasses to the playground.
we hold
hands across the street
make a chain
with our sticky fingers
and it feels
good.
someone’s
building a bar
beneath a
bar
and I keep
hearing about it.
keep hearing
the chandeliers
shake over
my head
the
glittering glass clinking in the light.
the ceiling
is so far away sometimes.
I’d like to
have a drink.
I’d like to
say hello.
I’d like to
see the details painted
here on the
wall.
I’ve done
errands around myself in loops
linking my
stops together
gathering
what I need.
I’ve got to
get out.
I’ve got to
get my hands dirty.
I’ve got to
brush my teeth
before I do
anything.
down st. roch
i could see your boxers all down the street
it was sweet--still wasn't sure it was you though
the other day when i almost called them panties.
i wasn't sure, then, if you were listening, and at least
i'm less afraid of betrayal or maybe its
of carelessness i caught up
it was you.
it was sweet--still wasn't sure it was you though
the other day when i almost called them panties.
i wasn't sure, then, if you were listening, and at least
i'm less afraid of betrayal or maybe its
of carelessness i caught up
it was you.
july first
everyone got wasted.
everyone wanted to make out so everyone
drank moonshine at the drag show and
everyone fucked up everyone's pronouns.
(everyone deciding not to say anything)
everyone hid memories for later days.
like july second and july third when
everyone snuck back into the bar at noontime
to drink a seltzer and collect some belongings.
everyone wanted to make out so everyone
drank moonshine at the drag show and
everyone fucked up everyone's pronouns.
(everyone deciding not to say anything)
everyone hid memories for later days.
like july second and july third when
everyone snuck back into the bar at noontime
to drink a seltzer and collect some belongings.
BC
Dear B. I miss your musty
leather-bound, books and basement
Grandpa wood, your generalized knowledge,
car and tennis court your creek.
I’ve been thinking about homes and hovels, holing up
How do I say “radical kindness” and actually mean something?
Dear B., I think your politics are naive but I
love your figurines, and clocks, your walnut bowl.
leather-bound, books and basement
Grandpa wood, your generalized knowledge,
car and tennis court your creek.
I’ve been thinking about homes and hovels, holing up
How do I say “radical kindness” and actually mean something?
Dear B., I think your politics are naive but I
love your figurines, and clocks, your walnut bowl.
Excorsisms (July 2)
sometimes deliberate, a performance
which requires your hand
reaching into your closet and pulling out
the same skirt as before, so someone else can take it off this time
as the clouds roll in, as you cry quietly while getting
your last hurrah.
other times they drop into your lap - the computer body
hot against your bare legs. scrolling through the evidence,
the heat spreads to the inside of your mouth and your cheeks
tingle with knowing. it’s true. and you run
to the darkest corner you can find like an animal
getting ready to hibernate.
you think of dogs in cars and trees
songs about scars all the best pop metaphors,
with the windows down; it’s summer and you are
drumming your feelings into the pavement
running as much as you can as fast as you can
as far as you can. stopping just so you can
start again.
which requires your hand
reaching into your closet and pulling out
the same skirt as before, so someone else can take it off this time
as the clouds roll in, as you cry quietly while getting
your last hurrah.
other times they drop into your lap - the computer body
hot against your bare legs. scrolling through the evidence,
the heat spreads to the inside of your mouth and your cheeks
tingle with knowing. it’s true. and you run
to the darkest corner you can find like an animal
getting ready to hibernate.
you think of dogs in cars and trees
songs about scars all the best pop metaphors,
with the windows down; it’s summer and you are
drumming your feelings into the pavement
running as much as you can as fast as you can
as far as you can. stopping just so you can
start again.
typewriter poem 2
i think i've been warned about snake oil before
and the man with no teeth won't drink it at all
before he looks up in the sky and sees a herring,
A HERON,
and the man with the boat comes and frees his passengers
from their stilted conversation
but as i gaze at its swoops and loops and glides and turns,
it reminds me what i came to learn:
obsession doesn't earn respect
and it isn't respect either
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