if the poison made
me
more like a
hummingbird
maybe it wasn't
poison
after all
heart fluttering
sustained by
glucose water
tongue making
friction
on my brain every
time I speak or
breath
Showing posts with label poem 20. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem 20. Show all posts
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Receipt Please
Death of an age,
flatulent men poking at peanuts.
Tannery mornings,
a lost burp here or there.
No reading, no real ideas,
nice spa pictures.
Powerpoint nitwits,
no real feelings,
for the death of the age of
clipart.
flatulent men poking at peanuts.
Tannery mornings,
a lost burp here or there.
No reading, no real ideas,
nice spa pictures.
Powerpoint nitwits,
no real feelings,
for the death of the age of
clipart.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
The other way to listen
is the flashlight swinging
and the rope still
glad?
each breath is deeper
sullen, sunken.
ice cubes and twitches
in a noon day sun.
Monday, January 21, 2013
PARADE
We are walking down Lark street in Albany, state capital city, with its stained glass brownstones lining the green tulip park, concentric circles that bleed out, morph to skinnier row houses outward, away from that architecture of esteem, brick to wood, more people slumped, strewn to hot days, hot nights.
We are walking down Lark Street with sandwiches and coffees. Every man who passes looks. One has no teeth and a black t-shirt with yellow print: SHOW ME THE HONEY.
Where Lark meets Central the Memorial Day Parade is coming. We hear it, approaching like low thunder. Where the two streets cross, we meet head on.
Just the white boys marching. Vietnam. Korea. Civil War. Boy Scouts. Uniforms of different colors, different horns, guns, hats. Different fights. Different songs. Different orders. Left, right, left.
And then, in back, with a gap between the last of the war boys and the first of the new noise, the neighborhoods spill out in their humanity and their harmony, all fists and shouts, yelling loud intention.
It’s so hot out. One woman holds her toddler by the waist to her hip. He is released, his back flops, bouncing to her march.
On the sidelines people slump and smile and wave their little flags. Part solidarity part cooling effect.
On the sidelines it’s all children and women and brown skin. We are watching, close and distracted.
The sun beats onto our surfaces. The city is sitting there like a waistline, can’t help it, blatant floater between that deep pine wildness above its belt, the tangled concrete metropolis below.
One leader tosses skittles to the crowd. The packages hit the ground. We reach for them, push them around with our shoes.
We are walking down Lark Street with sandwiches and coffees. Every man who passes looks. One has no teeth and a black t-shirt with yellow print: SHOW ME THE HONEY.
Where Lark meets Central the Memorial Day Parade is coming. We hear it, approaching like low thunder. Where the two streets cross, we meet head on.
Just the white boys marching. Vietnam. Korea. Civil War. Boy Scouts. Uniforms of different colors, different horns, guns, hats. Different fights. Different songs. Different orders. Left, right, left.
And then, in back, with a gap between the last of the war boys and the first of the new noise, the neighborhoods spill out in their humanity and their harmony, all fists and shouts, yelling loud intention.
It’s so hot out. One woman holds her toddler by the waist to her hip. He is released, his back flops, bouncing to her march.
On the sidelines people slump and smile and wave their little flags. Part solidarity part cooling effect.
On the sidelines it’s all children and women and brown skin. We are watching, close and distracted.
The sun beats onto our surfaces. The city is sitting there like a waistline, can’t help it, blatant floater between that deep pine wildness above its belt, the tangled concrete metropolis below.
One leader tosses skittles to the crowd. The packages hit the ground. We reach for them, push them around with our shoes.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Blankets
I made fun of you for all your blankets
and how you put the a/c on in winter
because you like to snuggle with your head covered
I told you I was claustrophobic
and tossed and turned in your big red hoodie
under the weight of the blankets
You told me the story of the sheepskin blanket
and how you stole it away from an old lady
when you got the screwdriver set at the Xmas gift swap
feel how soft you tell me
and I try not to be too impressed as I wrap myself in the tiny blanket
Tonight I walked home alone in the cold
the wind blowing violently in my face
shivering as I quickened my pace
and secretly wished to be under your blankets again
and how you put the a/c on in winter
because you like to snuggle with your head covered
I told you I was claustrophobic
and tossed and turned in your big red hoodie
under the weight of the blankets
You told me the story of the sheepskin blanket
and how you stole it away from an old lady
when you got the screwdriver set at the Xmas gift swap
feel how soft you tell me
and I try not to be too impressed as I wrap myself in the tiny blanket
Tonight I walked home alone in the cold
the wind blowing violently in my face
shivering as I quickened my pace
and secretly wished to be under your blankets again
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)