Bubble wrap.

 

Days when you’ll wear your heart like a brass knuckle;
days when you’ll wrap wrap wrap
each ventricle as a boxer prepares fists for a glove
; readied for the impending blow (s)

No matter the thickness of cardio-calluses,
truths pierce bubble wrap,
deflating it to cellophane.

 

Written Monday, July 30th, 2012 @ Smith & edited Tuesday, September 4th, 2012 @ Smith. 

 

***

Photo taken Sunday, September 16th, 2012.

***

I grabbed one of the lines I hurriedly scribbled down during the contestants’ ‘slams’ (slams?) at this year’s Seattle Annual Poetry Slam.  I used one of the lines as a prompt to write this poem: “There are days when you’ll wear your heart like a brass knuckle.”  I didn’t catch the poet’s name.

(To read other poems I’ve written that germinated from poetry prompts, search for “poetryprompt” in the search box on the right.)

Ago.

 

just a few (days)  (ago)
I waited for you – here.  Behind the bar.
And when you arrived.
hands on knees, knees on hands.
behind the bar, the bar.
No one knew
about our steadied meeting eyes.
Those moments. shared moments.
So few, so few.

 

Written Thursday, September 13th, 2012 @ Smith with Michael & Bosco.

***

Pink goo.

 

Until the next eyes
that make my body die
and melt into
a marshmallow fluff of pink goo.
Until my next sigh
when your nose and chin are close enough to smell
moments before possibility,
the first press of new lips.
– skin on skin on skin on skin –

What exhales outside our atmosphere
does. not. matter.
does. not. exist.

a kiss on the forehead – erases memory.

 

Written Tuesday, September 11th, 2012 @ Joe Bar with Jake.

***

***

“Pink goo” was inspired by a line from Marina Tsvetaeva‘s poem, “A kiss on the forehead”.  (1917)

A kiss on the forehead—erases misery.

I kiss your forehead.
A kiss on the eyes—lifts sleeplessness.

I kiss your eyes.
A kiss on the lips—is a drink of water.

I kiss your lips.
A kiss on the forehead—erases memory.

***

(To read other poems I’ve written that germinated from poetry prompts, search for “poetryprompt” in the search box on the right.)

Call. text. think.

The definition of truth is a lie.
Looking into empty eyes;
– apart or together –
every moment
is a tremor
disturbed water
in a glass half
of half empty.
I suppose that would be
a glass 3/4 empty.
Does 1/4 full = optimistic
because you use the word, “full”?

I wanna tell you about love’s ugly
when you are broken and a mess.
When dark rooms aren’t dark
dark enough
so you keep eyes shut
doors shut
blinds shut
mouth shut.
Heart carcass in decay;
slow-sinking rotted pumpkin
hemorrhaging on the floor
gurgling, sputtering a siren shriek
to call,
text,
think of you.

Written Wednesday, May 2nd, 2012 @ The Living Room.

***

Jake and I hit up Seattle’s Annual Poetry Slam again this year.  As the poets spat out their conviction-laden words into the microphone, I scribbled down lines that tugged at something in me.  I used one of the lines as a prompt to write this poem.  The line?  “I wanna tell you about love’s ugly when you are broken and a mess.”  I didn’t catch the poet’s name.

(To read other poems I’ve written that germinated from poetry prompts, search for “poetryprompt” in the search box on the right.)

Awkward and falling.

The faces we put our lips to
eyes closed,
smelling dead skin cells
veiled in shampoo residue
arms by our sides
then palm holding neck
behind hair
fingers scrunch and tangle with strands
deep breathes between tongued kisses
teeth knock; we giggle
awkward and falling
in love.

Written Saturday, 8.27.11.

***

***

This poem was inspired by a poetry prompt exercise – write a poem around a line from an existing poem.  The line I used was, “The faces we put our lips to”, from a C.D. Wright poem in “The McSweeney’s Book of Poets Picking Poets”:

The Couple

Now is when we love to sit before mirrors
with a dark beer or hand out leaflets
at chainlink gates or come together after work,
listening to each other’s hard day.  The engine dies,
no one hurries to go in.  We might
walk around in the yard not making a plan.
The freeway is heard but there’s no stopping
progress, and the week has barely begun.  Then
we are dressed.  It rains.  Our heads rest
against the elevator wall inhaling a stranger;
we think of cliffs we went off
with our laughing friends.  The faces
we put our lips to.  Our wonderful sex
under whatever we wear.  And of the car
burning on the side of the highway.  Of jukeboxes
we fed.  Quarters circulating with our prints.
Things we sent away for.  Long drives.  The rain.  Cafes
where we ate late and once only.  Eyes of an animal
in the headlamps.  The guestbooks that verify
our whereabouts.  Your apple core in the ashtray.
The pay toilets where we sat without paper.  Rain.
Articles left with former lovers.  The famous
ravine of childhood.  Movie lines we’ve stood in
when it really came down.  Moments
we have felt forsaken: waiting for the others
to step from the wrought iron compartment,
or passing through some town with the dial
on a Mexican station, wondering for the life of us,
where are we going and when would we meet.


Like the sadness you wish.

Like the sadness you wish
would last a little longer;
the itch on the tip of your nose.
You try to allow
but can’t deny it for too long.
It’s the love
that’s bad for me,
the one I believe
to be true love. The real kind.
But I’m behind.
As far as recognizing real love goes.
If you don’t know you’re pretending
how do you recognize pretense?
How much of what we see,
is sensing what we want to sense?
It’s easier to hide behind the solid things,
the things that don’t squish or drain,
as feelings do.
What once was me and you
is now “the morning after”.
You laugh differently.
Confused and bordering regret.
No more confessions or vulnerabilities.
The hazmat suit is airtight.
The way you treat me,
like a familiar stranger,
I can hardly breathe.
My leg is caught beneath the anchor
of what you were to me,
I’ve been choosing to flail
and tred sludge to win you back,
but the trove of what is
calls out to me
with its shiny-ness and glisten.
I can hear it
and am ready to listen.

***

This poem was inspired by a poetry prompt exercise – take a line from an existing poem, and start from there.  In this case it was: “Like the sadness you wish would last a little longer” from a John Garvin poem:

Still and All

A moist spring evening lowers itself
Onto the fragrance of lilacs and cherry blossoms,
Like the sadness you wish would last a little longer.

These days we do it every time
Someone drops a hat.
Sometimes we do it even

When no one drops a hat.
It should always be like that,
Don’t you think?

In Iraq right now, someone’s doing it, no?
They have to. Despite everything.
And one of these days one of these days

Will be just one of these days.