Posts tagged ‘Literature’

June 26, 2015

How I write poetry

Could they hear me at the desk oozing prose onto the page,
clipping hard at the keys for grammar,
few words and blank space,
giving my all just for free writing?

Had they known my walk through the pre-day skyway,
the negative eighty degree cooler I passed—I am like that: cool and old.

Had they been blinded by a window’s reflection
or kissed their love before exiting a truck?

Could they feel the concentration,
the poise,
the inspiration,
of each line, in each book
held in heavy hand?

White came black, black came red—what you read this heap (?),
red turned pale, then yellow, then green—the fear, coming out of me.

This was it,
the beginning of the end,
and I had just opened Word
to give my fingers a stretch.

How coffee, how Grape-Nuts, how banana,
how milk, how ab workouts and a tepid shower
had been the muse to it all.

My body in the morning, my morning.
They hadn’t known.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

June 24, 2015

Adjusted Advantage

The world can seem so small
when assessed from the confines
of a one bedroom apartment.
A space tight, sticky, stuffy,
and near unbearably drab.
For a person to go outside and look,
to see all there is to see—to expand the expanse,
to imagine what one might attain
in the span of a lifetime,
at the change of a thought,
on the prospect of a whim, at the drop of a dime.
A perspective can be released
from its rigid boxy cage to stretch sore wings
and to grasp the once unthinkable,
for merely a chance thought,
and for adjusted sight, mercy!

June 22, 2015

St. Anthony Waste

Sour leather bands synched
in a veiled humidity,
swam this Midwestern oven,
doggy paddle for fluid strokes.
Rolled windows on St. Anthony
caught a trash truck soup
of faintly fanned aroma sweet
under parted clouds;
cloy cutting, putrid, pungent,
unforgettably at the tip of your tongue,
in the holes of your nose.
Fumes came from plastic bags ripped
and cardboard boxes smashed
telling of domestic unimagineables,
making way to the forefront,
aggressively introduced,
and not leaving soon.
Remnants pressing,
pushing through the city;
parts of me, parts of you—
the powers of summer heat sparked
a sickening knotted perfume,
lingering in the air,
in these communities tight knit.

June 19, 2015

A Moment Mid-Commute

Slowing my advance
the smell of fresh dew
on bending grass,
deeply rich, as pubic loin,
naturally beaded,
morning fruit,
coming up into me.

Passing chance is a pedestrian
at another drink,
to sup, to taste—to figure:
the luck.

Beyond what affords
the wires and cords,
the libations of vibrations—in pocket and lapel;
consorts of sorts:
eyes to see to tell,
caught in a room, in a shell.

Here it is running between sharp teeth,
between punch in and punch out,
the texture expands on the tip of tense tongue,
to drown the drain
in the welcome back of a dry desert throat,
where we once spoke.

Yesterday’s sun had taken all proof
of what there was to own:
the house, the car, the student loans, the mobile phone.

Every drop of hydration
was taken from placement.

And then that orb went away
with the dying day,
to blackest night,
to come back and drop what it lacked,
to give what it had taken away.

These globules,
these droplets of life,
here on fine grass, stay,
for all to gleam as they pass.

Seeing yard for a blade.
Seeing hours for a wait.
Bearing witness to its presence,
to this small existence, to little menace.

Taken its smell,
dew on these forms,
forms on this ball,
lit up by yellow orb,
spinning, rolling, coming down,
into finite points,
magnified and reflected,
encapsulating each particle universal,
directly into you.

A most minute sense,
and worldly.

To think,
it was almost unbearable
to enter that building
on this day.

May 10, 2015

It was Highland in a Nutshell

It was wet cans of PBR from a Coleman cooler
and pulls of Bulleit whisky warm
on a Friday night.

It was green Jalapeño poppers wrapped in fatty bacon
next to glistening short-cut rib rows
in a twilight kitchen.

It was pickup trucks frolicking in rusted skirts
over deep grass fields,
while hunters gathered fungi at the midday shade.

It was alabaster ashes of last evening’s fire
smoldering, becoming ghost stale
near metal pasture gates left wide open.

It was small brown trout caught in cold streams
bleeding, below an Amherst hillside
melting in the last light of a springtime Saturday.

It was Driftless region bluff’s strong straight-wind
carrying Johnny Cash’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down”
into folding valleys asunder from a driver’s side window.

It was a weekend’s mosaic of moments,
laced in and strung up together,
of oscillating seconds and intrinsic perspective.

Oh, it was…

April 2, 2015

Start to Finish

By the time
I got to the end
I didn’t know
where I started…

March 31, 2015

Right/Wrong

Some wrong is right, some right is wrong;
the only matter is who sings the song.

March 29, 2015

Here.

The man who could
teleport as far
as his eyes could see
remained trapped
in a room full of mirrors.

March 13, 2015

Prelude to Spring Break 2015

As early March had come in biting and the best were kept inside,
a span of two weeks had passed slowly and sleep had become elusive.

Professors watched second hands tick and gave out faux tests;
these symbolic life quizzes—it’s who makes it who matters.

Desks became confines as concentration went out open windows,
to welcome hands of mild weathered-breeze and new-season sun.

People—tired students, red-eyed lecturers, they didn’t exist;
regular situations became stimuli for a stagnant comatose: why?

No answers formed, except that three days later a person could be a week away,
anywhere—abroad, nothing to do, only to read titles and books which please.

Yet we all sat watching that clock, it moved slower despite us;
now, it would have to stay indoors and assess classrooms of empty chairs.

Scholars and administration would hopefully be in Spring air, taking it in,
with a cold beer in hand and tender sunrays on their back;

minds would exist as empty—blank slates, to pen a tale—an experience,
with no thoughts of what was left sitting behind, with not a hint of rigor.

February 25, 2015

Free Me

Blood for ink,
the page for flesh,
and few words for character
description;

their imprint does stain,
the pinprick storyline
of a feeling—

I would sit and count
for minutes,
hours,
days,
months,
years,
etc.

but sitting is not conducive
to good movement, patience does nothing
except waste time
and progress
and dull the mind…

They may say: relax, let it pass.

that time; what could be
a particular goal seen to fruition.

Those who hold the ties that bind,
the keys we need,
are working steadily behind my
eyes,

the nerve—these nerves,
and more; each synapsis connects to
the message passed,

this circuit board commanding:

a knee jerk,
a hand slap,
an orgasm,
twitching muscles going to
bed—as you rock to zzzzzzzzzz.

Found out in between,
no verse to discuss,
no song to critique,

just the rigid clock’s tick,
and those who run by it (and from it):

they tell us what to do—
how to eat sleep and breath—
where to be, what to wear, how to look,
when and where—
there—and how to see.

Now who tells you how to be?

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