the top of today's to do list:
figuring out why I became a poet.
it was wheeling in my head
while i drove to work this morning.
less wheeling rather sitting still-
and waiting.
stoplights, and a sleeping dog
fall down into the street,
my impatience can only let the stoplights lie.
why this medium, i still wonder-
if i need so badly to unburden my insides-
why such feather-light abandon?
if i am so full of conversations, and stories-
why do i stick everything to fly-papery-metaphor?
maybe my life is made of too many breaks-
and little punctuation
maybe my speaking skills
elude less erudite
maybe my skin empty of decoration
is like the paper i tattoo with words.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
-
two squinting painted eyes looking solemn on a leathery face. this knight of the golden age has a 20 gallon bucket of a hat atop his slicked...
-
to have sticky pins for fingertips and ballpoint pens for thumbs. then I could fascinate myself to you, and write away doldrums.
-
July 7th the face of a rose deflates our windowsill- not much of a garden. July 8th after the party- a painting is crooked I think someone d...
-
our silence comes easy and there is much to it the commingling of our fingers and the swapping of palm oils and the nimble saltation of ...
-
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across but...
-
July 9th i feel like running again. it's either that or swimming in a valley of tears. July 10th you couldn't tell by looking at us,...
-
Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
-
Out the window, I thought I saw Emily pale, gawking. a green T-shirt. bouncing firey springs on her head.
-
The ache in my jaw reminds me of my age, that I'm still cutting teeth on broken sage and giving up meat is my best bet, because I'm ...
-
The one downstairs. adjacent to the hall closet, but with an achingly tiny window. the walls were "powder" blue the towels had no ...
So... you're thinking of getting a poem tattoo?
ReplyDeleteif only.
ReplyDelete