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.
Over-hearing dates. First dates. are obvious. The fidgeting. The extra diaphragm push when (s)he laughs. The extra laughs between not-so-funny things (s)he says. Because it’s cute. To laugh. You’re more attractive with sparkle. With those ruddy-blushed cheeks. bundled up to your peepers. Glittered in flirty.
Written Wednesday, December 19th, 2012 @ Smith.
Edited Saturday, January 19th & Sunday, March 24th, 2013 @ Smith.
Photo taken Sunday, September 23rd, 2012. Georgetown.
I could tell you what I’m feeling
but the words from my mouth to your ear
will morph mid-flight between the two
and I won’t know what you’ll hear.
Written Tuesday, January 31st, 2012 @ Joe Bar with Jake.
Photo taken Sunday, July 22nd, 2012 @ the Capitol Hill Block Party.
how many things have you said. and to how many people. how many things have you said that were misunderstood. how many things have you said and to how many people that were misunderstood. and you never knew. both of you. you never knew.
how many things have you heard. and from how many people. how many things have you heard and from how many people that you misunderstood. and you never knew.
both of you. never knew.
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.
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.)
The faces we put our lips to
smelling dead skin cells
veiled in shampoo residue
arms by our sides
then palm holding neck
fingers scrunch and tangle with strands
deep breathes between tongued kisses
teeth knock; we giggle
awkward and falling
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”:
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.
Seattle, kiss kiss.
Collection: Boat Street.
They’ve become water-colored,
my memories of you.
They hide in the wind as whispers do.
Moments brush-stroked in to the scene —
silent, maddening moments.
As whispers do.
Parking lot wall off Roosevelt Way.
When we listen. ::: Gallery.
Collection: Behind the Wheel.
Snap in the lens, and take a peek.
Do you see what I see?
The paint has been peeling;
where once was gold
is kitschy opportunity.
if rock bands are willing to reunite,
we have a chance.
If we provide kids the room to think, to speak, to dance, to disagree,
our universal depth of vision,
is deeper than we think.
Let the letting go.
You are not the kind. I knew.
Not kind, unselfish, deserving.
You required unwinding, and the ask
to unravel bindings
crusted by burst blisters
from the years’ angry messes.
Tongueing your salt-rimmed wounds,
you walk away.
to put a fleam in a flat palm,
and hope for an assist
for a therapeutic phlebotomy.
Taking to my own skin
with nails and teeth
and sharps that fit my grasp;
blood-letting humors that smell of you
marinated in muddled strawberries;
you, with a durian-fragrant tarred and toxic taste.
I am letting
the letting go
to the end