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.