Coaster poetry for Michael Van Horn, who provided the inspirational word:
10, 11. They’re OK. What’s your name again? Your plastic limbs don’t fit in here. You’re cold and calculating. 9+3 = twelve. Twelve times I said I was done. with you. You and your 20 fingers. You and your 15 ‘little white lies’ to put me aside, and 13 ways to pretend you don’t love me. You said your favorite color was red. I should’ve known then. I should’ve known that our heads wouldn’t mend. Together.
Coaster poetry for Christi, who provided the inspirational word:
You say blue, I say gray. You see the sun, I see turbulence, vitriol, and mangled decay. You always wanted to live then. French Revolution. In your sodded petticoat and shaved matted hair, swept down cobblestone streets in this week’s ferment. Will you regret that you pushed me out the window? or do you just like the sound of “defenestration”, the way it rolls off your forked tongue? You use to scrub your eyeballs clean.
Coaster poetry for Rachel, who provided the inspirational word:
wait. yell my name in to the ceiling. I’ll do it too, with yours. but you have to look up. up up up up. they watch us through the rafters and let them go. the sounds. if. we push just perfectly. Do you hear them laugh when we pretend? Winks are echoed through eyelashes. eyelashes dance upon cheeks like trees on breezes. You are my favorite tree. I don’t give words to the truths I carry. They’re just for us. just for us and scream when I scream.
Coaster poem for Natasha Livesly, who provided the inspirational (and homegrown!) word:
place the stone. you place the stone. it balances. the way the tufts do to the core before you blow. they dance as newborns before they walk. they dance to words they don’t yet know. to be words or other things. a garbage truck. an ice cream truck. they smile anyway. pick your nose like you pick flowers. with care and calm. craft your moments. share your wishes. crawl to allow mute to speak. Frankenstein your life. freezer pop your lips. look at all this bliss. it’s an old country buffet. cake bits mixed in with everything. everything. go on. pick up a spoon.
my clothes were 5 lbs. from soggy sidewalk to garbage bag. I pretended it was normal stuff. I always fold laundry on the sidewalk. in the rain. And I cry. It makes me happy. Brings me joy. to do this. with an audience. spontaneous performance of raw moments. Only people like me are able to experience. I had no ring leader. No rehearsals. No music sheet. Just a nose. eyes. a mouth. The ability to see the rain. and smell it perfume the street. eau du realité. I relish the taste. of you. leaving me.
periodic sedentary slip
I get what you’re saying
when you use the right words
and say the things
that make sense
if you use past tense
I don’t listen
I don’t understand
It’s not about upper-hand
or who’s wrong
we could talk and talk
and say things, and
use big words. But
will it ever make sense?
Written Thursday, November 1st, 2012 ~1:20am @ Smith with Luke.
I’ve started writing poems on coasters when I’m out. Not every time I’m out. Just sometimes. The way it works is, I ask a friend to give me a random word and go from there. I free write poetry. Write whatever comes to mind. I usually use both sides of the coaster with bad handwriting and edits I can sometimes barely make out. This one’s the latest. It’s from last night.
The word: applesauce.
“I didn’t know I liked it until the other day. I was looking for something sweet.”
“You can make it from scratch, you know.”
I imagine it in a lunchbox.
A single-sized plastic cup with foil you peel away.
It reminds me of unexpected ex-boyfriends.
of surprise Play-Doh colors.
of Crayola colors not yet imagined.
I want to get paid to name them – Crayola colors.
I want to mash them between my toes – apples.
In to applesauce.
Written Wednesday, December 19th, 2012 @ Smith.
(Thank you, Tim, for the random inspiration via text.)