Short Story - Workshop

Short Story - Workshop

Short Story - More Than I Had Asked For

More Than I Had Asked For

Short Story - Bullies

Short Story - Bullies

Irene

good night Irene good night
I slid the military body underneath the sheets
radio on, for back up
rest of her turned downwards
faced away from me
she is friendly but a dream
radio on, to back out
and say good night
good night you don't want me that way

September 21

I Really Will Not Rewrite This Poem

I will not rewrite this poem.

I will rewrite this poem.

I rewrite this poem.

Rewrite this poem.

This poem.

This.

August 11

Children's Book

Took pride in growing up this alligator:
Swim here, my five-inch friend, then to your cage.
And though I loved him then, I knew that later
He'd be too tough to care for in old age.

As week and week went by, he grew until
His thrashing mass (which threw me all about)
Could crawl all walls and slither round to fill
The biggest space I had. Sad day! I threw him out.

My parents don't believe me, and they say:
"How could something so big just get away?"

I think that he's still near, and since he's free
He's found the room for grace in his cold heart.
He's warm-blooded enough to forgive me
And keep me safe, his human counterpart!

August 10

The Big Kids' Table

The big kids walk over. I'm invited.
A few of them ask, at different times during the day
so I know it's not some sort of joke.

I spend the afternoon thinking about it.
When younger, didn't I always want to be cool?
Didn't I always want to be older and distant?
That rarely happened.

Ride in their cars to the school, drive home with them
from work or clubs. The big kids aren't quite so big
after all. They can't be much different from you in the future
and my my my aren't you growing large?

So when the aunts and uncles convalesce
I wear slacks and a nice shirt and a tie
with a bit of my mom's gel on the peak of my hair
and sit quite cramped and uncomforted at their table
with the fork in one hand and the knife in the other
and when I cut a piece of food I switch the knife
with my other hand I pass them over
and replace them to put the food up to my mouth
I spear it and chew it.

They're talking and I listen, and I realize how much
the big kids' table is like all of the other tables I've sat at
when I wasn't quite so young or quite so confident.
This is a real occasion.

The big kids get tired and leave, and I'm finally free
to do things that I can't think of when I'm with them.

August 9

Register this:

It looks like these lightbulbs shine
Brighter than they seem to.
There's a gleam to them
Not apparent if you're used to their kind
Mercurial changes, harsh conditions,
"No one looks good under fluorescents."
No one looks well enough to see
That there's a light, shining, beyond us,
And, through, us and between us,
Or that it leads, back to somewhere.

Recycle that:

These lightbulbs shine
Brighter
There's a gleam
Not apparent
Mercurial, harsh
No one looks good
No one looks well enough
There's a light beyond us
Through us
It leads back to somewhere

August 8

Smooth Skating

Back when I was skating
wore blades on my feet
Dug into my every move
Hurt those I met
When life is too polished
That's because something's worn down
Feel the grain on your face
When you're pushed to the ground
You can skate real fine in a straight line!
But fall over when something goes wrong

August 7

Land Feet

Land feet land feet first. Step one: Then take two.

I walked sensitive and humming to the dynamics

I heard the rain get louder

I saw the sky become brighter.

This image: The roller puts his foot out and falls down

in a graceful arc with a gentle twist onto his bottom.

Sheepish grin. Lambasted by his wife. Sore tonight.

Land feet land feet first.

August 6

Novel

Novel. no vowels: nwl, new vowel.

An emerging sound. Like learning French

where the oo’s and the u’s and the 2’s are different

push your lips out, pull your throat back.

Novel.

(Feel the way she feels.

You built this in one year. You’d let it fall as easily.

Give it a shot or two.

Let’s make this seem like a sequence of events:

Plodding along, cause and effect,

causally affected.)

August 5

Noreastor

Noreastor, or at least enough rain released to be one
Charcoal grill (cooking by someone with far more skill)
was just a minute or two ago under the sun!
Now crouched beneath the porch, my dad, his dad, and me.

Through board gap spots the rain drops occasionally
Splotch, hang on hat fat and heavy. Conversation falls.

August 6

Legalism (Theology)

If poetry was my god, and poems my prayer,

then by god, I was a legalist.

Read back those passion pleas:

words stuck inside the metered lines

each other line forced in to rhymes

and so on.

If poetry was my god, and what I read my doctrine,

then by god, I followed scripture.

Who cares how relevant John Keats

Why write the next Kubla Khan

 Where did I find the time to labor every night?

If poetry was my god, and was angry with me,

it showed me it was real

when it disappeared, as summer faded,

without an answer or a question.

August 4

Summer Days

It’s summer days like these that make those sawmill phrases true,

Sawmill, water wheel, grinding up and down around the round.

It works, reliably.

I try to close the door to the bathroom for some privacy,

But the house is too well-circulated. No doors left unopened by the wind.

It works, reliably.

No hurry, really. Life’s simpler somehow.

August 3

wee ooo

wee ooo, wee ooo, policemen drive

wee ooo, ooo wee, keep you alive

ooo ooo, ooo wee, pulled off the road

ooo wee, ooo wee, this girl’s gonna get towed

There, I wrote that with sirens on the brain.

Blue cruisers cruise by with that plaintive refrain.

You feel safe when the chariots ride by but others

chafe to hear the dry cry.

wee ooo, wee wee.

August 2

You Free Friday?

“You free Friday? Let’s go bike riding.”

So you free Friday, and we go, and by deriding you

I find out you don’t respond well to harassment.

Spokewheels spin around spoke well to you:

Spin it around on me try it out.

Make your self, make yourself a man.

Wheel it away from you.

You free Friday again and the same thing happens.

Nice guys ride with their knees to their chins.

You need to learn how to sit where you’ll win.

August 1 

Thief

I got lots of things, Mama, but I never got caught.

Choked a locomotive train
back in the black and white days,
Channeled flannel-wearing men to jack
a cold sack of gold in the north land rain.
You can tell a tall-tale from the way it's explained:
Does it feel uncontrived, is the story restrained?
If so, I've not revealed my true plot.
I got lots of things, Mama, but I never got caught.

Slick hands slip quick across rich man's hips,
wallet's in grip while his trip gets worse.
He doesn't expect it, doesn't suspect
until he checks it, if he catches me I reject it,
and just in case, I am well rehearsed.
I got lots of things, Mama, but I never got caught.

New cut designer suit,
Accountants counting countless counties' fees.
What bounty is accrued
when you take a penny or three from each deal
that you've viewed.
No more a theft than thinking's a thought!
I got lots of things, Mama, but I never got caught.

Crooners sing it:
Swing tunes and ladies beneath rhymes like Moon in June,
but none of that could make her swoon.
She was his until I made him a baboon
through comparison, yet I little enjoyed the prize
once the fight had been fought.
I did lots of things as a kid, Mama, but I never got caught.

June 26

Gypsy Hips

You do the voodoo that you do:
Shake snakes at me, take stakes and wave them bravely,
dance half in a trance
as if your body (not your mind) was free.
The smell of incense is a bit too intense,
open a window, let it out.
You're obvious right now.

Lying together on the grass making photographs,
half baking laughs,
drinking half 'n half from a hot coffee bath
Cut and dry
after the asthma attack.

Your boyfriend's a charmer, too,
he told me, "I don't want to harm her,
but it's the least that I could do."
I have to believe him,
we've been best friends since grade school,
since back when smoking cigarettes was cool,
since before he fell for a pretty fool.

You roll die real nice, chant scant incantations
for cages of white mice, feed them herbs and spice
mixed in with brown and light rice.
You curl up with a horoscope, hoping no Capricorns elope
with Sagitarius today while the pitch of your slope gets higher.

You don't mourn the dead, you say,
"We're born to get older,"
but you really don't mind when I cry on your shoulder.
Gypsy Hips, you've made my world seem less cold,
and so I move you into a less judgmental folder:
Friend.

July 22

Coffee Cowboy

Coffee cowboy beef jerky
US turkey atop the bully pulpit
No matter how you sculpt it, you lose.
Marble, clay, or imaginary way, watch it tumble
when the person says, "Pique a sage, speak Greek at this age?"
I M P O S S I B L E

Turn cows to gold.
Just how? I sold them.
Call Cool Hand Luke, he'll spool out the dollars.
Though he wants to call her, "Fortune,"
I say she's Luck. Luke disagrees even when he pays the fees.
I M P O S S I B L E

When times get rough, it's enough to blow
the storm door down.
The hurricane became an act to see how we'd react:
I say, "Rebuilding's the fun."
I M P O S S I B L E

Gulf coast wars post horror story lore
on message boards once hosted at the office.
Those silky spores explore more possibilities:
I feel ill, still others have to have their fill.
Blood and gore.
I'll nail complaints up on their doors.
I M P O S S I B L E

What do we know of kings?
They sing songs for us, fill a Las Vegas bus,
die and cause a fuss.
Don't tell me we don't love them any way.
Don't tell me we don't elect our royalty.
I M P O S S I B L E

Strange way to end it.
Send it to the editor.
What do you pay him for?
Your dreams laid out in reams on the copier's floor.
Get it? What seems obscene gleams some times.
This boils over. It's over?
Below the surface, it swims and teams.
Your scream:
I M P O S S I B L E

July 20

White Stetson Hat

White Stetson hat, you jerk. Up and down, lady.
Curtsy for you. Am I douchebag to put this on my head?
Let's see those hipsters preach America.
Let's hear our slime-filled syncophants rejoice
when consumerism bubbles.
It's not the things we buy, etc etc.
What we never use

July 20

Ears

There's only one mouth here,
it's not working for the both of us.
There's just a bit more.
We can either believe we're the ones talking
Or shut up and listen to something beyond both of us.
There are more than enough ears to go around.

July 20

I Am Here

This is not California. North or South Dakota. Illinois. Alaska. Missouri. Delaware. New Mexico.
Forget about Michigan, New York, Alabama, and West Virginia.
Not Colorado or Idaho. Washington or D.C. Tennessee. Florida.
Never even been to Nebraska, Oregon, Georgia, Oklahoma, or Texas.
Didn't mess with Iowa, Mississippi, Kansas, Montana, or Wisconsin.
Nnnnnnorth Carolina. South. Virginia. Pennsylvania. New Jersey. Arizona. Nevada. Hawaii. Indiana.
Maryland. Arkansas. Minnesota. Ohio. Wyoming. Utah. Louisiana.
Couldn't be Vermont. Maine. Massaschusetts. Kentucky. Not Rhode Island. Not Connecticut.

July 20

Delilah, Delilah

I have no idea how long you’ve been standing behind me,

running your hands through my hair.

Awake I’m hunched over my chair, writing or reading.

To count the number of promises hung on my wall:

Shakespeare’s plays, from All’s Well That Ends Well to The Comedy of Errors.

Beethoven’s symphonies, all nine numbered.

Three fantasy novels from a druggie.

Robert Frost.

The story of Odysseus in Ireland, 1904. How the West was Saved by Ireland.

Warm, bright, and balanced guitar strings.

A garbage bag filled with dusty laundry.

If when I turn around your face has followed your body

to this place, will you betray me and release my hold?

July 2

Little Arcs

You've spent years tracing neat little arcs in the sand,
Waiting to meet someone who can complete them and who understands.
The grains feel cool and smooth, weigh light, look dark.
When my hand lands down I doubt I am the first to recognize your mark --
But being where I am, as the first that you have met,
I put a finger to my lips and smile, "Not yet."

July 1

Discouraged

Don’t be discouraged by words you hear.

The clicking track goes to my ears,

My hands still flag and fail to keep the beat.

I find that after all these years

I have not made a single song complete.

Here’s things that don’t make sense

To many people: Crescendo to the end,

Diminuendo first. Semiquavers then

A couple of crotchets. Pull off then bend.

Don’t be discouraged by words you hear.

June 30

Smithereens

Just as Caesar fills a bunghole,

Shakespeare’s clay’s (like his plays) inside of us today.

Our not too solid flesh stays fresh for only so long

Looking for the tiny pieces of others in us:

Smith-ereens and Wilde-beans in me.

I could sublet my house and subdivide myself

to search smaller and smaller worlds.

There, pluck the electromagnetic spectrum

with my spectrographic plectrum –

sound, wave to magnetism,

o o o ripe ripples ripping once again in rings (sings).

This is the sound of singing: o o o

June 29

Dwarf Alberta Spruce

Deer resistant but not deer proof - depending on scarcity of food.
Dwarf Alberta Spruce.
A small, dense e'ergreen.
Takes 25-30 years to reach maturity.
Foliage and cones.
Now I'm just copying and pasting.
I need something hardy and strong.

June 30

Never Give The Woman To The Money

Never give the woman to the money, he says,

As if it was a thing animated and

Capable of controlling her and ordering in some way

As if it had a mouth, slow and deliberate

speaking: feed me, feed us.

As if it had watery eyes and watched her

except when she didn't need the guilt to act.

As if it had no ears to listen to her

brief protestations as she finally gives in.

June 25

To The City

My love by bus why train

try car no parking no place

All roads lead in to

Underneath the common ground

Nineteen dollars.

A flat fee for a round trip

Through bridges and under the road

No roads lead out

Common round and under

June 28

Be More Responsible

(What? was the expiration? date)

Taint misbehavin’. Misdemeanor. Seen some things.

Not a plant, not an animal – something else.

Fungus spreading. When one gets it, they all do.

Softsmell burning, sickly sweet.

Sweet, sweet, sweet. Sweet in your mind.

Sweet in your mind but repulsive in your mouth.

June 23

Cool Down

When she takes a shower –

Shampoos, scented soaps, hair conditioners

Can’t cool her down soon enough.

Dare I disturb her there, bare and in that secret place?

Nay! Not I!

Not when I am the one that made her mad

Not even when it’s no fault of my own.

Later,

Bathroom baptism over

Water swelled and drained away.

June 24

Wanderlust

This poem is about wanderlust.

I could write this poem about Odysseus,

and it would seem to be an obvious choice.

He wandered the sea, and upon returning home

decided to leave again as soon as possible.

But I’m more interested in the “lust” part.

Wanton teenagers sidewalking the streets

throwing their rocks at girls’ windows

humidity still in the air as the lights turn on

ghastly orange and sweating

Sadie turning prigs and pigs to men

Sweeter Jane enchants and Sweetest Jane sings songs.

There’s still the girl that they return to at home.

Maybe it’s got a lot to do with Odysseus after all.

June 27

Waiting for, Frustration

I’m waiting for frustration here –

Each day I want to do, to feel, and more,

but even when I’m working and appear

to reach a satisfaction with and for

my life – there’s something missing when

I’m home or even when I’m out with those

I thought would be the best – but then,

of course, the moments that we love the best

are those inside

            our memories

June 26

Depth

The sea is deep and so am I.

Tiny robots dig the depths and I watch them

From the comfort of the television couch.

June 25

Complex

She said, "I'm complex." In a moment
of levity, or anger, he told her
she had a complex.

Ten minutes later, he was outside.
"You never think about things,"
she had cried. "You only do them."

The houses on his street are smooth
and calm and he walks by them
and counts down from his age.
29...27...25...23...29 greater than less than happy.
She says what he thinks
He is defined only by what she says:
You're never angry at me for anything I do
Why can't this be the first time?

June 26

First Magazine On The Rack

First magazine
On the rack
Rifled through
By everyone
Put back, we take the next one
Or keep the one after that.
Like first package of meat. Is it okay?
Don't want to be first.
Glossy, glossfeel.
Slender and last to go.


June 26

Born and borne and with

third person lens -- see through childhood.
and scenes are narrated unfiltered.
that was unfiltered life, where words
followed (or preceded) thoughts.
thought about it until it became colorless.

colorless? NO, but less colorful.
different shades of the same color.
first personal and only occasionally mixing.
how could any other color be correct?

June 26

Arm's Length

When I hold my hand at an arm's length
it seems too far away
I cannot control it
with or without my thoughts
I don't tell myself to stand
or ask my mouth to move
(it does this on its own)

June 26

Hamlet For Breakfast

It’s breakfast. This Danish tastes odd – tastes old? Mom says

I’m crazy. Just eat and get washed up. She says Stop playing around.

I stab my fork into these eggs. Stop praying around.

She’s tried to get me out of here before. Chicken! Drown her out

Chicken and eggs, mother and son reunion. It’s time to go.

June 22

Spambot

It’s like those horror movies where the family is transformed:

So innocent looking. Same face, but inside

it’s all different!

Opening up the email, it’s a spambot

that’s taken control and probably has already infected me

takes fer earaskr

June 21

Honestly, It Was Getting Old

Honestly,

                I never much enjoyed reading back

The poems I wrote, darkened and black,

Week in and out for that poetry class.

Have I abandoned meter now? Alas!

I do not know.

Don’t tell me which way this ship will blow.

This tired metaphor’s about to set sail,

But I have brought a glass and pail.

The pail’s to bail myself when I begin to sink,

The glass is for when I begin to think.

June 18

Half As Many Twenty-Four Rhymes

Twenty-four times : half as many rhymes.
Learning the Latin to say : puella pulchra est today.
Or French tous les doigts : all my ten fingers, or so I thought.
Held them, hold: getting too cold.
This line is misplaced and : was done intentionally, understand.
Still too warm : for the words to correctly set and form.
Please rearrange these : couplets how you like, to see.
Some new unconventional story : of love written most confusingly.
Don't let the colons throw you : off or skew.
Nine, ten, counting lines to fill the sonnet : how many more to get?
Don't bother writing your story : to another's rules, get free.
Show some compassion, ἀδελφός : give it another go.

June 20

Recomfit Comfort

What is comfortable? Rolly, round.
We're not meant to sit: stand,
Lie-down, or squat.
Squatters in my sisters' apartment
Just won't leave. But comfort leaves:
Stress? This is comfort.
Er, I meant to say: What is comfort? This is stressful.
It's not that I don't know what to do here.
But comfort leaves us again and again.
We work towards it, squat in it.
Are too afraid to give it up and leave it alone.

June 19

Bird-Brain

tiny little thoughts, tiny little heart beating

through tiny little veins, tiny little arteries leading

(their lives are fleeting)

to tiny little bird-body bleeding

June 17

Glamor

Glamour is a woman when I write her

Why not a man?

She was glamour,

sin personified.

I parsed her as a paramour,

her pursing lips, most dignified.

She was lipstick tube, boobs,

hips thick, loose shoes.

Half off high heels! What a steal!

She was glimmer of glamour in my mother’s eyes

Sisters all were reconciled,

Brothers agreed she had great thighs.

Let’s all keep our heads, why don’t we?

June 16

Curses

Gamblers ramble on about the day they’ll strike rich

drink their dream from the bottom of the ditch

but when it’s time to roll, roles reverse

toast the chances that coast on the dance of their curses.

June 19 

Vonnegut

When the man walks in
With a dog under one arm
And two packs of Pall Mall cigarettes in his sagging shirt pocket,
I can't help but think of him.
Pall Mall's killed him, right?
If the characters in his books travel time why can't he?
He was crazy

June 14

A Day Off

A day off

the beaten path,
the rocks,
the bandwagon.
Wiedersehen!

A day off

from work,
Broadway.
The payroll.

A day off

from school,
for good behavior.
My meds
track
the rails,
the coast,
on the wrong foot.

A day off

her rocker:
my back.
Her high horse:
my conscience.

June 14

Businessman

Something stinks:

The awful offal of daily productivity.

Can’t a businessman leave the land better than

when he began his damn activities?

It goes like this: Tie over shoulders as you piss

Shirts tucked between rib and elbow

when you start to go.

June 13

England

I'll have to go to England someday.
I imagine Great Britons hate it when
us flabby-willed Americans
fill their wharves or quays.
How many stone does it take to get stoned
here in the U.K.?
Well, I have no idea what the country
looks like, really,
but I've been imagining the streets are still
paved with cobblestones,
trodden down right to bone
by carriages, the horse-drawn cars,
and there's just one long road that spills
past pastry shops, that passes bars
(called pubs?) the Romans must have built,
much older than the dirt or sand.
Roll the stone, cool in hand,
cool in mouth, and fool of this land.

June 13

Hardware Store

"There aren't too many people like that anymore."
That single act of thoughtfulness, he told me,
sent shivers down his spine and up his chest.
He was surprised by what the man had expressed:
"Thank you for your patience," when he
was made to wait in line too long at the hardware store.

June 13

My Nose Presses On The Glass

I never want to see outside my window

Superimposed over the outside world

A reflective face (my own)

This view should be objective.

At night I shouldn’t have to turn the light

To see more than a few feet away

Into the darkness of the corners and in the fringes

Because when I draw too close I see nothing

But myself and I see too much of that

The rest of the day.

June 12

Drudgery!

When I begin to roll my verse

out with iambic arms and feet

you may feel that it crawls much worse

than modern stuff, though I still think it’s neat

to have a steady way to move

(one step, next step, next step, one at a time).

I will admit I let the groove

and it’s compatriot, the rhyme,

control the ways these poems go.

At least this drudgery’s more fun

to follow in its throbbing throes

than some dis-join-tedly-re-run

complaint about the current state

of my poor mind’s puerile debate.

 June 11

Impotence

The sit, the squat,

You little shit, you’re still a twat!

I wish that I’d been impotent

So that my life was different:

No kids to swat,

No bills to pay, no interest,

Maybe then I could invest

My time in something more meaningless. 

June 10

Care For Me

I paid her to care for me.

She promised that she’d care for me.

I believed her when she said it.

Dolores, you must elaborate

while it’s nice to have friends and family who love you

It’s really most important that I have a doctor

who can care for me.

June 9

It Wakes Me Up

I can’t escape.

I close my eyes, slow down my brain.

It wakes me up and calls my name.

My pencil starts to scrape.

I try to wait until later to explain.

It wakes me up and calls my name.

I try to let it down.

I try, just once, to douse the flames.

It wakes me up and calls my name.

It burns with verbs, with adjectives, with nouns.

It burns with a singular aim.

It wakes me up and calls my name.

I get from bed and walk.

I walk through streets and yards and under the rain.

It wakes me up and calls my name.

I listen to my own voice talk.

I listen to the rain and each raindrop sounds the same.

It wakes me up and calls my name.

I go to school and rest.

I go to class and try to lay my mental claims.

It wakes me up and calls my name.

I take a test.

I drag a thought through too, but drag in vain.

It wakes me up and calls my name.

I go to work and try to smile.

I get to work just to hear the same refrain.

It wakes me up and calls my name.

I’ll be asleep and ready to leave.

I’ll be ready to leave and take all that I’ve claimed.

It will wake me up and call my name.

I’ll pull the veil over my face and breathe.

It will wake me up and call my name.

June 8

Wardrobe

She was a constant wardrobe malfunction
if her clothes were the faces she wore,
her interactions with those around her.

She drops clothes while she changes,
those kind of actresses learn to switch fast
slipping one right on to the next.

She finally started to take them off
when she started asking me about you.
I told her to trust more on these things,
suggested that she pick one outfit to wear.

June 7

Freshman Year

Those careful faces

she floated above

were two sincere, and two sarcastic

the rest rested rusted eyes on the table.

Ready to grip their ears, if offered

smaller circles drawn about them

when she lands her crooked purple talons

sinking down, deeper –

Use fewer words, but more of them,

Don’t try to fight the nature of the poem,

You shouldn’t say should or shouldn’t,

regurgitating straight into our mouths.

Relenting at first, we sat stiff in our chairs

and began to swallow what we liked.

Writing now without her

breath no longer down my neck

no scent of secret cigarettes.

Free to stand up and move around.

June 6

"The Indirect Effect of the Invisible Man"

If the best that we can do is say,

“Thank you for everything.

Good-bye.”

Then I hope I gave the best to you,

As you gave nothing less to me.

June 4

Chisel. Mallet. Sand-paper.

Chisel. Mallet. Sand-paper.

He dreams of rolling these Elgin Marbles:

Run fingers round chilly and quick

down the sides, still, cold.

If life could emanate from ivory

could brain be complex enough

from someone else’s mind,

sufficient to enchant and please?

Trying to capture the mind on paper

breaking down at the improper veins.

Slipping from hands too worn to care

or carry this sculpture from its place.

June 4

Bookstore

You can't walk into a bookstore
and pull poetry off of its shelves
It must be coaxed, charmed, seduced
sometimes tricked!
Convince it that you'll treat it well
it may think highly of itself.
But when you bring it from its shell
you'll offer to it more and more
let it know that it was you who picked it out
and begin together.

June 3

Tastebud Camaraderie

Her lips taste sour

I taste sweet

We waste hours

Make each other's palates feel complete.

June 3

Dear John

When prompted I respond

“To whom it may concern…

Though I’ll be here

Our love may not on your return

I’ve had my hair done many times

In a little while you will see me no more

It’s best if we divorce, and quick

I won’t be married to a man who’s poor.

If you love me, you will obey my commands

Yours truly, forever and…”

June 2

Head Hunters

Three points a head, and that’s two more

than when you strike the body.

They call the ones who try to score

with just this way head hunters:

Their legs tap once, then fling upright

and pom-te-pom. Good strategy.

I keep them off by closing tight

and when their legs are under

flip their body upside down!

June 1

Short Story #2

I have completed my second short story. More will definitely follow this summer.

Short Story #2

Total word count 714.

She Tied Her Hair

She tied her hair in a way so that
barely
it was just together
but every few minutes
a wisp fell down
put back in place
as if she were
distracted
or annoyed
but inside she smiled
and drew them closer.

May 21

Home

I came home on May 9th from my first year of college to find those same nourishing rains that fed my creative urges last May when I wrote a poem every day.
I wandered the yard that I had spent so much of my childhood playing and developing in and found memories in plants, sights, and feelings. I wrote down many ideas for short, humble poems and publish them here tonight. They are all labeled "May 9th, 2013" with the subject appended. Please read all nine together; they are meant to be processed, enjoyed, or frowned upon as one work.

May 9th, 2013 - Last Year's May's Alive

Each step closer to the woods

makes the rain louder and louder.

It’s as if the trees are drinking all they can

before the summer dries them up.

Each drop of rain is personal and distinct.

As the rain quiets down I write faster and faster

as if I can only create while my world fades,

trying to keep what remains of last year’s May alive.

May 15

May 9th, 2013 - Garden

I told my Mom

I wanted to learn how to garden.

Looking at the patchy vegetable plot

my Dad built years ago,

the wire walls are curved, bent over

the gate is rotted out and tufts of not-vegetables

sprout here and here.

I simply step

over the walls

into the soft dirt

and pretend I’m a plant.

Grow faster, grow faster!

May 15

May 9th, 2013 - Holes

We asked my grandfather what kind of animal

was creating these holes on the edge of the yard

fraying as if what little world we owned

was slowly coming undone

“These aren’t animals,” he said

when he saw what we were worried about,

“the earth is settling.”

And he put his entire arm down one hole

to prove himself right with mind and hand.

He knew how to get results.

May 15

May 9th, 2013 - Yellow Plant

This plant here is the color of my favorite sun dress.

Not that I wear dresses:

I think that girls who wear this color

look very pretty.

It only happens in the spring but

you can see the plant through the window

it looks like sunshine any time of day,

raining or not.

May 15

May 9th, 2013 - Frogs

When I was a boy I would walk

through the puddles

by the garage and look for frogs.

I found them almost every time;

I would corral them into my fingers

and see how patient they could be.

Would I crush them?

Would they pee on me?

After a few moments rest they would hop away,

their cool slime lingering on the touch of my fingers.

Home now, and much older,

I can’t find anything yet

but each blade of grass bounces back

after being hit by a drop of rain

could be another one.

May 15

May 9th, 2013 - Deer

The deer knew better

than to eat the sides of the bushes

that face the house.

Years ago we sprayed repellant

on the plants to save them from the vagrant animals.

They must be getting smarter, though.

They’re just as destructive

as they ever were, if not more.

May 15

May 9th, 2013 - Purple Plant

My sister is allergic

to the purple plant that grows on the side of the house.

I don’t think that I am as well

but when I approach,

breathe in the thick perfume,

my head hurts and I can’t think

quite as clearly until I’m out of its sight

and myself again.

May 15

May 9th, 2013 - Bird Houses

I wish that birds lived in our bird houses.

My mom loved to watch the blue birds,

and I remembered the things I learned from school

Don’t touch baby birds or their parents

won’t take them back

If you disturb their nests

they don’t return.

and so on and even if those aren’t true,

why risk breaking open such a tiny world?

I’m still afraid to look inside the boxes,

lest I spoil something

May 15

May 9th, 2013 - Echoes

Even after the rain is gone, it echoes

through our woods, keeps some memory alive,

sounds like the sweetest thing.

From my window, I can hear the rain

and when the lights are off

I can see it too

May 15

Creativity

Creativity is your river

changing in depth and speed and width

emptying into larger lakes and rivers,

following the pull of gravity down to the ocean,

down deeper and deeper into the earth.

What was direct and purposeful bends and winds

after years of running, seems to disappear

until a flash of rain rejuvenates

surging and muddy again

(not many can make it to the banks)

Rivers can be polluted miles up stream

filth and disgust drunken day after day, year after year,

can’t be cleaned that easily

you can drown in your own river, become too self-absorbed

don’t be surprised if, when others catch you,

staring at your reflection in the water,

they only laugh or politely smile

because they don’t understand

A subtle body of water can remain undiscovered for years

or underestimated

and occasionally

Welcome those that share their rivers

feel their waters flowing into yours

together you could do so much

search for the paths long since dug into the earth

Creativity is your river,

encouraged by others at your meekest hours,

carved into your mind as if

there was no other way to travel.

May 15

I Will Allow

I will allow a sacrifice of sound to not sacrifice my meaning.

I Return To Memories To Finish Writing Things

Prompt: Poetry (Think sound, feel meaning.)


He would write out poetry for girls when he liked them
and giving them the only copy, he would regret that
he had nothing left for himself.
If a girl threw away his writing
he would think about how at some point
the sound of him reading it to her survived longer
than anything put down on paper

March 31

No Longer

Prompt: Lost Time (Don't worry.)


Don't be afraid of these.

Don't be afraid of calculus:
It can help you understand so much.
Try this problem:
Derivatives only hold value when something is changing
with respect to something else.
The distance between us changes with time.
At any instant we are the same distance apart,
but things aren't so consistent or certain as time changes
we can't measure how much we've changed.

Don't be afraid of your friends:
They love you and respect you and when they see you
they don't think
he is a good person
or she has done bad things
and they don't mention the time you were vulnerable and everyone heard
the sounds of anger and disgust from your mouth.

Please don't be afraid of lost time:
Please don't worry about how things could have changed
or about the time you wanted nothing
more than to hold something important inside of you
and become important yourself.
If we stop changing it's to be anything worthwhile.

March 30

Twenty-Three Knives

Prompt: Freeze the President!

This is violence:

where everyone holds a knife

but no one knows which hit killed

where everything is for the greater good

where those closest to us are the last we see

and you, too, were children until

suddenly

there was nothing left of who was once there

and it took twenty-three knives to kill Caesar

but there’s not enough time for all of us

to do the same

March 29

Eager Easter

Prompt: Eager Easter

What if his buds were all in on the joke:

they snickered in secret and knew that their bloke

was coming back soon to talk to the folks.

On Easter they took off their taciturn yokes

and waited with weighted breaths…

March 28

Portrait of Columbia

Prompt: Columbia

Liberal Lady, lick up/lap down

the taste of freedom.

The trouble with gravy is how

it’s reapplied to the meat it was freed from.

Ride the boat, tried the train,

now the automobiles wheel below planes.

She can’t stop her mouth, and anyway

it all sounds the same

as “I  tall!” her too portentous claim

she cries while she climbs to our porch

raising up her bug-catching torch

while the barbecue cooks the meat

(yes, the same) that was delivered,

ground and hamburgled, to our feet

as if we were born here free only to receive,

never give.

March 27

Why Bother

Prompt: Assassinated Love

“It’s said when Shakespeare coined the terms

“assassinate” or “elbow”, “bump” or “gust”

he took those words from colloquial forms

and wrote them down first, without a fuss.”

and Harold Bloom claims the bard

created our modern man

gave us our minds

So what of love? Why bother

if Shakespeare thought up that concept too,

and years later we repeat his words

and cling to stories that run thicker in our veins than blood

it’s real in our world

even to those who haven’t found it yet

March 26

Pirates

Prompt: Pirated Inspiration

I imagine that this is how some people feel

about stealing the ideas of others:

Avast! Arr matey, etcetera era era. A ship off

the starboard brow! Fire cannons, destroy the deck –

It’s not going anywhere, boards and plunders, pillage and filch,

take what’s left and sail away a patchwork victory.

When does an imitation take away from the original?

If anything, the ship sailing away will be stronger

But more often than not, the new pirate simply joins the crew

and assimilates into the operation.

March 25

Cost of Living

Prompt: cost of living

When someone drops change

you take the time

to get closer to the ground

and help them recollect

that is the cost of living

March 24

Waking Up

Prompt: Armpit jocularity

There is something in this air

after waking up, the earth yawns

the sun becomes warm again

and a certain a certain smell emanates

from the armpits of the world

as it rolls over and gets out of bed.

March 23

Sticker Shock

Prompt: Sticker shock

Putting a suspiciously succulent fruit into your mouth,

don’t be surprised to find the label still there.

Which farm? What grade?

Spit the paper and adhesive out,

or be more careful next time.

March 22

The Situation

Prompt: The situation

The situation becomes more complicated each time it’s explained:

Calling for the help of others is no use.

Like flies in a spider’s web, our movements are anxious and strained,

desperation only luring victims to the communal noose.

March 21

Demon

Prompt: The Demon in the System


I've heard a demon is not inherently evil,
it's conjured, brought to our world to follow someone's commands.
I've also heard that demons don't exist
but don't tell that to my aunt,
as she spins faster and faster
disappearing in the smoky air,
mouth frothing and frantic,
transforming the air around her to ether,
fingers gently touching

March 20

The Spirit

One last visit,
chance to make it worthwhile
there it goes again,
moving slowly
crouched as an old man in arthritis,
waiting in line for his pay check
from the amusement park.

The spirit feels different from other things:
It doesn't feel the way that I used to.
It doesn't seem to care about what you think.

If it had a face, a body,
it would turn to me and shrug
fading like music
or poetry of the sweetest kind.

March 19

Family Disconnections

Prompt: Belittle the colossus

When Jason arrives, much to his chagrin,

his evil uncle strives to kill the handsome kin.

With one sandal left along the river’s route

the scandal was now on the other foot,

as when uncle was cooked into a stew,

he was disemboweled by his family, too.

It seems those closest to us hurt us most;

they linger on our minds as haunted ghosts.

March 19

General Sherman

Prompt: No compassion

Raking their bodies across the earth,

salting the wounds,

stiff upper lips.

Some believed it necessary,

some were crazy,

some smelled of tobacco dip.

From the massive sequoia tree,

to the sprightliest bug,

stuck in paws of compassionless grip.

March 18

Checkered Reality

Prompt: Checkered Reality

At the end of Junior Year of high school, I tried to paint a single chess piece on a checkerboard on half of a canvas. I had a lot of fun painting the board, but when I showed my teacher the lonely piece, he didn’t understand what I was trying to do. He didn’t understand my checkered reality. At the time I was suspicious that he just couldn’t understand my artistic vision. But then I realized that the best of visions, when poorly presented, are worth little.

Somewhere, the half finished painting is sitting squashed between two other mostly finished paintings. I suppose I could dig it out from beneath a pile of dust, but I would much rather begin it again than continue where I had left off.

March 17

The Happiest Man

Prompt: Funereal birthday party

A television program foretold

the day that he would die.

He no longer celebrates getting old;

He drinks to death the first of each July.

If death is as significant as birth,

why shouldn’t he enjoy the years

until he leaves his body on the earth?

His happiness is somehow more sincere

than those who fret and moan,

“Maybe today is the day.”

His body holds no fearful bones,

has no more hurtful words to say.

March 16

Dew Drops

Prompt: On the cusp of freedom

In the still world

before the true sun is up

dew collects on a petal

until one too many arrive.

Each individual weight couldn’t be more than an insect

but together they slowly drag upon the petal

rotating the axis, changing something

one drop falls, the petal

springs back

closer to freedom until the next one forms

in the still world

March 15

Days and Days Spent the Same Way

Prompt: Farce

mock mock

when the alarm clock

wakes up

and the mask is put on

mock mock

home, way back

there was an old fashioned one

in the kitchen like an old tv

mock mock

and another day lacked

smiling and shaking

hands, where they belong

mock mock

when the day is black

going to sleep

and waiting for the clock

March 14

Reflection

Prompt: Reflection

I turn to be an older me

within the mirror on the door.

I yearn to see my body free

from vanity forever more.

March 13

Thirsty and Searching

Prompt: "I have sailed down mighty rivers." -Shelley

I have followed the trails to once mighty rivers,

seen the ways their currents pulled,

stood upon the banks that they delivered to.

I have walked along side them.

The path quickly turns,

and you can see that I want

my writing to be the clear stream

you discover mid-hike, thirsty and searching,

in your ascent to the summit.

It will be quiet but forceful,

never yielding, always moving:

It is safe to drink from.

March 12

Precipitation

Prompt: Falling from the sky


When the water starts falling from the sky
she opens her mouth to drink.
Crowds around her continue to move
but she does not hesitate to collect as much of the world as possible.
Only so much directly enters her body:
drops collect in her hair, glistening,
soak into her clothes,
the corners of her notebooks curl, excited.
No one could take it all in at once
and she knows this,
raising her body upwards
drinking in the sky.

March 11

Brochure

Prompt: Interdisciplinary bedlam


Broaden that perspective for only
a couple hundred dollars
more!
Be the change
you want to see!
Studying humanities will get you
nowhere but does anyone like
science?
Why not give up?

here is the answer:
UNDER OUR PROGRAM,
STUDY EVERYTHING IN ONLY
70 YEARS YOU WILL BE READY
TO TACKLE ANY PROBLEM

After our courses, nothing matters

March 10

The Young Writer

Prompt: Writing everything down


When he started, he couldn't stop.
He wrote everything down.
Words that people gave him,
interactions from books and movies,
stories of the girl who couldn't keep her pants up,
the neighbor who cheated on his wife and left town.
He wrote down things that disgusted him,
enticed him, made him curious,
he sat in his bed on mornings when he hated himself,
didn't talk to friends at dinner,
read good books so he could steal ideas,
forgot to call his family,
and he wrote everything down.

His fingers, working to hold a pencil,
grew tired or unresponsive.
His eyes, gentle wanderers,
were heavy, pulling his head down toward the earth.
He knew people very well:
What about them was unavoidable,
their undesirable characteristics,
their fatal flaws.
He wrote about them, moved their bodies,
watched them fail time after time
inside the worlds that he mirrored from ours.
He wrote everything down,
scenes emerging and dissipating.
He read the best and wrote the best.
When someone stopped to listen, he spoke.
What sounds escaped his mouth -
of lofty towers and enlightenment.

That was not what he meant.
He bottled their reactions,
thought of Joyce, thought of Salinger, of every high-school tortured soul
who felt their wings, still wet from metamorphosis,
still stunted by the weight of gravity's authority,
dulled from the humidity of society.
He wrote this down.

March 9

Confession

Prompt: Why You Should Not Marry Me


How could I give my life to something
I have loved for so long?
I've seen you in all the right places,
in show windows
television commercials
billboards off Mystic Parkway
all the familiar cafes and rendezvous.
How could it be anything but love?
And if it is, I can't risk losing that
by taking such a big chance
on something so important

March 8

Relative Potential

Prompt: Relative Potential


Relative to you - I suppose I don't have much potential
yet setting the bar lower, we find that
I can do so much more - but not just me
Together there is something to be done,
wonders to be accomplished,
connections to be felt.

Relative to me - We share something,
don't take my word for it. Take my word
to new places, just as I take yours.
We can do so much more.

March 7

Fatherhood

Prompt: Fatherhood


If I could imagine what it's like to hold you:
I want to learn to garden
Do I understand what I must do?
If I knew the hours I must sacrifice,
analyzing and worrying,
giving blind trust,
the cost of food, expense of waste,
I would not do it.
But I do not understand these things.

March 6

The Painting Hanging Out In The Living Room

Prompt: Painting Again


I feel it, I perceive differently
How can a picture that has not changed
still be a reflection of myself?
I still see the same depths and flaws
and it's difficult to conceptualize
but I find a new part of myself every time I return.
Well the only difference is the series
of smudgy finger prints on the glass
evidence for my physical life
while the rest of me lives inside

March 5

Doting

Prompt: Dote


The foolish fingers touched her face:
Spoiled, impulsive, too eager.
Pinched the cheeks,
let the foul perfume linger.
Yet some connection was far deeper
between the two
than would be apparent.
Some gurgling wheels,
like chain smokers perpetually coughing,
continue to perpetuate.
The girl will take her place.

March 4

Short Distance to the Well

Prompt: A friend becomes something less.


We used to drive that short distance to the well
when Papa took the car and went far away.
I walked much further than I ever had felt
to get to the same place,
empty bucket swinging by side,
rubbing against my leg.
That same source, which we drank from until
we noticed it was running out.
Less water every day.
We needed a new well.

March 3

Monkey

Prompt: A Monkey Song


In a distant jungle,
one monkey throws his voice in search of companions.
When none return his call,
he stops.

Another monkey, believing he is also alone,
does not stop when he receives no reply.
His song grows in the widening night,
even as his fur chills,
his eyes water,
he knows someone is listening.

March 2

Silently

Prompt:
"My God is dark and like a clump
of a hundred roots drinking silently."


Silently, I enter the earth.
Each day more deeply,
searching and growing.
Once I am secure, I will return to the surface,
ready for the embrace of a loving world.

March 1

Scattered

I leave parts of myself wherever I go.

Scattered books, papers, thoughts, scattered ideas

that I held.

Maybe I don’t want you to forget about me,

or maybe

I don’t want to forget those things myself.

There’s so much of me inside those things;

within you.

Those parts of me remind who I am

and I could hardly reassemble it all,

I could never see all of myself.

You keep something of me with you,

showing it back when we meet.

I could never see all of myself,

yet stumbling on something

I left in your house,

I see that’s what I was.

February 24

Backlog

Think of this as a "rarities" collection. To make up for my lack of new posts over the last two months, I posted several poems that I started over the summer or last fall.

Michelangelo

I wanted to start this poem

with a thundering line

and thrust open the gates of awareness.

I wanted to feel the veins of a forgotten friend

beneath my fingers.

I wanted to break someone’s heart.

The line was:

‘I’ve read about the ways that men build towers,’

written in trusty iambic pentameter.

But every time I could not follow through,

my metaphor did not sit comfortably on the page,

it rolled and then refused to rest.

I had been trying to write a poem about how

I could not write poems like the masters could,

then realized that my poem was the perfect example of itself:

It could not do what I wanted it to do.

It could only do what it was born to,

and so I let it grow:

I’ve dreamed about the ways men sculpted statues,

feeling their marble blocks, rocky surfaces

cool against the heat of their cheek

searching faults in their argument

the veins that would ruin their art

working for years to bring a single vision

to life, only to see it fracture, displaced

by the slightest movement. The chisels worked to shape

the concepts and words grew those perfect nudes.

I’ve read about how sculptures were constructed, piece by piece

of marble ready as white paper.

As my mother said, you just have to draw

the face that’s already there. Or my great-grandfather,

whittle away the parts that aren’t supposed to be

and once each piece is finished, just connect them

one to the next until it starts to make sense, if it ever does.

You have to watch out for the veins.

Once I finished my poem I rewrote it again

and again, the ideas circulating, working towards

what beauty there is left to make art from.