"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

And a world

It's been twelve years, and her porcelain is beginning to crack. All the edges frayed like an aging art class project, decaying paper mache and crinkling acrylic paint. She remembers the artistry of the old days. The days when her son was small enough to hold, too small to punch angsty holes in his bedroom door. The days when her husband spent equal time at work and at home (it was just so busy, he told her - always so busy) and when he wouldn't come home smelling like perfume. She remembers when the fog eased at night and lifted in the mornings, emotions clear to sail. She remembers when the car moved without grumbling, stopped without screaming into the dead night air of the empty neighborhood. She remembers when their house was a project, not a chore. She remembers when her eyes wouldn't flicker in mid-afternoon, alone on the couch, Oprah droning on above her. She remembers a life that could convince her to keep living, and a world that could keep her afloat.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Kendrick Lamar, Sing About Me, I'm Dying of Thirst

Monday, August 4, 2014

We've been profound

I've sent you directions
to the nearest watering hole.
Meet me there at ten -
we'll take three random thoughts,
throw them together
and call the splash a poem,
the ripples a manifesto,
and keep the stray droplets
as tearful, heartfelt memoirs.
When our glasses hold
nothing but a breath of smoke,
order another round and escape
without ever paying our bill.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Big K.R.I.T., R.E.M.

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

The hero fantasy

Day Thirty: Patchwork poetry - piecing together a line or phrase from each of my last 29 poems, which I think is a very fitting way to end the month.

Conspirators abound, and history
ties their black hearts together.
There is a world behind the glass,
all this fullness of thought,
comfort in the shade of an old pine
and loophole avoidance.
We hear it through the walls, so dry and thin,
there, something dying,
emptying into an ocean.
Where did the first flake fall?
And what, then, is the worth
of an empty pair of shoes?
Now the divine is real -
the grandest mystery borne
in the arms of lovers or
the mouths of scholars.
We have considered following regulations
and posting a sign,
a ceremonial decapitation,
a small scandal, an attack plan,
an ocean of usable air.
At the scene of a murder,
hunger motivates too strongly,
toxic and withering,
as bursts of exhaust roast the air.
There is no art in this,
the drowning of a man,
a slurry of missed opportunity
too far from the sun, and too late
to turn and fly back.
I tread lightly in the sunlight,
a mess of scar tissue and bloody forgetfulness.
I have never fought the urge to animate the dead
(the flames reach out to teach them)
or to break our glass house.
When the screen goes dark,
we see ourselves in true light,
broken in, like old leather.
It's a great deal, you know.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Sufan Stevens, Casimir Pulaski Day

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Realization

Day Twenty-Nine: Only one more left.

There is no art in this,
the drowning of a man.
The ripples that stretch out
reach nothing, no rescue
and no dry land nearby.
The hands that hold him down
belong to no one soul,
but the whole consciousness
of some new, imagined
group of dark oppressors.
It is too bad, really,
that he had been hoping
for such a sorry end.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Grizzly Bear, About Face