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
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Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu...
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like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
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motionless sap. ogling your shadow, you have much thinking to do. has the potassium kicked you in the arse yet-and got you going? you a...
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Under a blanket it was at high altitudes in love or nauseous? I once held his hand his touch was so soothing-but with a lion's face. and...
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nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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and now that the anger is gone there may be a few more glimpses like looking out of the window through a thin veil of silk. a look in...
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confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
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it's not possible. I think the problem must be- too much love and hate.
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secret fancies don't really bother me, alright? but know that once you tell me I become either like a turtle and snap my smile...
So... you're thinking of getting a poem tattoo?
ReplyDeleteif only.
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