One Hundred and Twenty-Third Entry

End of the beginning of the big move today, and most if not all the poems you've seen this month are flying across the country on U.S. Postal wings, going into a manuscript contest.

Here's my poem:

BACKPACK VS VIDEOTAPE

Events vibrate at the the end of my life:
that's how backward I pretend I am.
I have a little system of kids, my wife
feels goofy in the shower and smokes,
leaving her pants on next to the tenement.
This hot suburb is rolling in the dark.

On the fancy desk, enjoying the flood,
surfing the moisture makes my window
sweat onto the toilet paper. The robots
hurt my tummy and the bikers look nice
with the colored lights, we're close to death
at this jukebox, and the Apaches are hanging
out at this bar we like.

Everybody's face hurts the wild plants,
everybody's stripping their muscles down
at the nightclub, we're enjoying ourselves
and I say it's good. Let's stay home while
the movie characters die, the television
person's a porno, an inch above his head
is a long black wig. It hurts me to look at magic,
I'm going to buy whatever this guy hums at me,
I've got this funny feeling the cops are arresting people.

One Hundred and Twenty-Second Entry

I'm gonna put up some stupid stuff today along with today's post. I'm trying out being more "bloggish" in my blog, if you haven't noticed. Let me know what you think.


For those of you who were as enraptured with the Montgomery Flea Market Youtube video () you'll enjoy the "spooky remix" Here.


Here's my poem:

CANDLE VS GLOVE

Here's every handy native known by police officers.
My first vacation ended in cold friendliness, traveler's
checks in a room, colorful faces wondering about
the good music. I like swimming and eating expensive
shampoo. Fancy tattoos you can't touch with your
disjointed hands, a broken promise in the wallet.
Mom and Dad play that guitar, somewhere else
I pretended my childhood was a smoky cubicle.
A garbageman is where modesty gets hatched.
Don't send this noble jumpsuit through the mail.
That dark corner has an apathetic architecture,
this game is funny about the details, the filthy
side of my lapel feels the full force of age,
and my cold nose bends at an angle.

One Hundred and Twenty-First Entry

I blew it. I've been under stress because of my bushwick to bushwick move., and boom! two days went by. The funny thing is that I've written poems in both those days and was just too tired to email them. Oh well, i got through most of the month unscathed.

I'm now combining my "thing" poems into "vs" poems, where I combine elements of both and...well, it would take a scientist to explain. The two poems I combined can be found here and here.

Here's my poem:

OATMEAL VS PILLOW

It takes time to freeze the currency,
where I step away from the button
and hum into the teacup, sleeping
outside of our arrangement, take
your bottles off of the record;
nuzzle the sides of buildings and
pretend we are window cleaner.
Why can't I pretend to be busy?
I dropped the scroll in the submarine.
Deferring to people will get you into trouble.

Everybody's leaving the library, wearing
the masks to impress the sounds of fanfare,
the party-goers enjoyed seeing it but they didn't
talk to the ebullient tyrant. I'm important and
I'm filled with forks. What a funny kid towers
over me, balls his fists, laughs and fights
over Google Maps, the wind outside
will be with you in a minute.

One Hundred and Twentieth Entry

According to certain drinking friends of mine, Idealism is good. Just updating you in case you were wondering.

I read Sarah Vowell's Assasination Vacation and enjoyed it thoroughly, with two major complaints: 1. she really gave McKinley the short treatment, not saying much about him and making unfair comparisons between him and G.W. Bush. When he chose to invade island nations, he was basing it on the best wisdom of his time, and looking at past precedents or lack thereof. The whole reason we know that American Imperialism is dumb now is because it failed in the past. 2. For such an obvious American Indian enthusiast, she makes the understandable accusations towards Andrew Jackson, but doesn't even bring up the failed assassination attempt on him, which would have been keeping with her general subject matter. Don't worry, I'm writing her a letter.

Here's my poem:

STAPLER

Hold tight to the mast or forsake
the whole journey, go bumbling home
to the mid-west, land accustomed
to humiliation, trail of beers poured
out flat and hot, bodies of water
left stagnant but for the swishing
underneath the surface of the drowned
water-skiers. A lot of water imagery
is good for a poem, and a lot of water
is good, planning this trip has been
the greatest pain in my life, you didn't
break my heart but you fucked up my spine.
Here's pennies I don't use, lay me on the
trolley tracks, watch me flatten.

One Hundred and Nineteenth Entry

I'm not going to lie to you. I'm drunk and I have an hour to put this poem up, so here are the results.

Here's my poem:

PIZZA

Alone on a lake, my politics
stark as the jumping fish in the twilight
of early dawn. Listen to your governor,
DJs spinning the hits, a clock reports
to be broken, and I am to judge it based
on our modern understanding of time,
then I went to the library, now I'm here,
falling asleep to the video game, eyes
shuddering like poor people in the rain,
never wanting to be there, my eyes closing
like restaurants too early at night.

One Hundred and Eighteenth Entry

Feeling mopey because of the many things that need to happen that aren't happening.

Here's my poem:

GLOVE

Handy to be known among natives, my first
vacation ended here, no traveler's check with
their colorful prints, historical faces telling me
the good times, like swimming and eating expensive
foods, fancy little things you're not supposed to touch
with your hands, all frivolity exists within the wallet,
stood bested with that empty wallet's moan. Call
my mom and dad, accept charges that I am not
what my childhood pretended I would become.
Only wanted the life of a garbageman. Noble,
wind in the face, jumpsuit. Feeling love for the contents
of that dark corner, walking by the shadow, knowing
lyrics to the funny song, the filthy side of this business
is feeling the full force of indifference; my cold nose
turns red on the roof.

One Hundred and Seventeenth Entry

I love how New York just completely skips Spring. If you ask New York what happened to Spring, you'll get that smart-ass "fuggetaboudit" kind of response, so I don't know why I bother bringing it up.

Here's my poem:

THIMBLE

I am no longer on the list of super friends.
It hits slow, below the belt where most of my biology
is handled. In tribal chant the nonsense of words is
assumed to have extra meaning, I hit my throat
with my hand to make a funny sound, I watch wrestling,
wrapped up in those dead wrestlers asserting
their legacy. Simple as spelling, the feelings I have for most
of you will be obvious at the funeral. You called me,
I missed it, I call you, you missed it. The particles
of dirt always get away from the broom, frustrating me
with the broom's imperfection: if we can't clean up dirt,
what can we do? It just sits all over the floor, every day,
feeling sorry for itself. In this grand hall, the palace
guard lick what is not clean off the princesses' feet.

One Hundred and Sixteenth Entry

I'm a seething cauldron of angst today, but I did buy a new DVD yesterday.

Here's my poem:

RAZOR

Ran out of glue; it just kept dripping
down by my smile while I inflated my bed.
Together we superheroes can make a stand
for true justice, I've outlined on this map
your faces, not much of a likeness, but
it's clear who is who. You're mine when you
bend your fats across my barbecue.
I bought the inspirational synths on your first
soundtrack, and I ran with them, neon jogging
gear ablaze. Clipless clipboard, stuff
in my fingernails, some music farting out
of a boombox, exiting someone's apartment
and entering mine. While it's still my apartment.

One Hundred and Fifteenth Entry

Way too busy to post a lengthy diatribe.

Here's my poem:

WALLPAPER

White screen bent out to let flies
mosey in. You are not my boyfriend
just because of this, it is random
and without emotion.

If I’m not going to throw
gold candy wrappers into the plastic
trash can, the least I can do
is throw them somewhere.

If I was a fly on the wall,
I’d know what to put on my resume.
This experience, this pain,
would only float briefly in my stupidity.

One Hundred and Fourteenth Entry

I hate Fridays because they ruin my Thursdays thinking about them.

Here's my poem:

EGG

It's not as good, this exciting
canal in which my daughter films
her slasher flick: badly acted echoes
of murderous intent keep me up all night
in my fucking expensive bed. We're
breaking out of this habitat, it's okay also
if we fall out of trees, drunk on our juices,
we're safe. I am a koala. You know the rest
of that joke, I'm busy searching for the case
for this DVD, a pointless artistic jaunt
with everyone being all french, bending
their arms in that european, slightly annoying
way.

One Hundred and Thirteenth Entry

There's a baby whale in Gowanus!!!!!!! CUTE!!!! I need to go get my little baby harpoon!

Here's my poem:

DOLLAR

It seems as if you'll get away
with my diamonds. I've stood
in court and spoken a little too quietly,
as if Ed Begley knew these people,
standing in a row with diamonds
dissolving in their beer, looking cool.
I'm not sure of the forecast,
but I won't panic if rain ruins my life,
because it's just one life, and certain books
tell me I'll live a couple of times more
or somewhere else and that works
for me, bullshit though it may be,
I've agreed to much worse bullshit in the past.

One Hundred and Twelfth Entry

Yawn. Back to work.

Here's my poem:

BOOK

It's darkness on that videotape,
we are the coolest empolyees, hidden
behind that counter, gray formica, check
out my mixtape, I held you and also
your scarf, I kept it from flapping,
there's pretty much nothing I'd like
more than to buy you something.

This is computer language for something
hideous, coupons emblazoned with regrettable
logos, graphic design sissies will be the first
thrown at armageddon's fangs, pretty fancy
stuff if you ask me, ketchup being one
of my favorites.

You're on candid camera. Wave like you mean
it, slime yourself if you don't know.

One Hundred and Eleventh Post

Almost missed it! I was at a friend's all day and then we saw Grindhouse (Don't!)


Here's my poem:

SOAP

I kicked you in the head with my hand
I forwarded your mail, hanging off
of the palm tree as if it was my tree,
I'm just confessing, I'm not necessarily
sorry. I felt your hand while I was asleep,
you told about a story in prison, men
who tell other men things, and then forget
to have known, but that's an older story
than you would like to believe. I just saw
you roll your eyes as I hopped in my car.
I put my car on your head until you told me
it was alright to leave, you dirty stinker,
why don't you use my hand as a shovel
when we look at children sitting near
the sand?

One Hundred and Eleventh Entry

Of course, the day before my reading is a really nice day, and the day of my reading is a weather disaster. LAY-YAME.

I've been commenting too much about stuff and nobody cares, including me, so we're getting right to it.

Here's my poem:

PLIERS

Day Six:
dragon skin holding up. Vacation
disaster, morbid weekend at haunted
mansion with terrible weather, bored
enough to take up an instrument.
Must remember to peel skin off
of seeds, seeds are good four our
people. Sunflower in the pot on
the windowpane, what song is this?
It sounds like eskimos battling
the only way they know how.

One Hundred and Tenth

Oddly, I'm feeling a touch, just a touch, sympathetic for Don Imus. By no means is this an advocacy of him or what he has said or his douchery in general. Should he be strongly reprimanded? Of course. Lose his job? Sure. But his life and future career is completely ruined, over three sentences. And I worry that because this guy has been ruined for something offensive, well, where does it end? I mean, sooner or later someone is going to say something offensive that's true. People say incredibly offensive things on TV and now, ever increasingly, on the internet, all the time (Ann Coulter? Michael Richards?) and nothing happens to them. In fact, sometimes the bad press can generate some activity in their careers. Also, Imus is not a newscaster, he's not an authority on anything, just a public personality. He's a sports commentator. And everyone's acting as if his comments on CABLE were a national address or something.

Just consider if the entire world heard you say one of the offensive things you've said. Would you deserve this treatment? Apparently so.

Alright, just thinking out loud, please don't kill me.

Here's my poem:

CANDLE

Here's every police officer in the country:
I'm judging their average weight and general
friendliness, cold men in a room wondering
why the music is so slow. My favorite kinds
of shampoo are as follows. My tattoo got all
messed up, now it looks disjointed, flawed,
like a broken promise written down. Play
that guitar. Play it somewhere else. This smoky
little cubicle is where the enormity of false
modesty gets hatched. Don't send this kind
of stuff through the mail. Jail is an ugly place.
The architecture is kind of oppressive, but also
just apathetic. This game is attentive to
the details, the smell of my burnt lapel,
as it thins with age and bends at an ugly angle.

One Hundred and Ninth Entry

I wrote today's poem super fast in between classes.

Kurt Vonnegut6 died. BUM-MER.

ha ha nice typo, I wonder who Kurt Vonnegut6 is? Some type of clone? Too bad he died too.

I'm reading this Sunday at the 440 Gallery, please please come!


WHEN: Sunday, April 15th from 4:30-6:00 pm
WHERE: 440 Gallery, 440 Sixth Avenue (at 9th St., F to 7th Ave.)
CONTACT: Brooke Shaffner at brshaffner@hotmail.com
Admission Free

Here's my poem:

MOUSE

Don’t thrust me into that opinion.
These vegetables hurt me, they’re so
unfresh their grimy, water-logged flesh
overcomes me, and I become happy again.
Time for the street, the street
which has started going a new way. I fight
against it and I make myself a wall.
The other walls kick me out which is pretty
prudish, I start my own society and collect
my cult. It’s not a dark cult but a badge
of pride. No candles but big overhead
lights, I’m no appreciator of the strange
but I have seen it, and this movie attempts
to correct that flawed assumption. What
we eat eventually hates what we’ve become.

One Hundred and Eighth Entry

Today was the first day that I almost forgot about writing a poem. Oobs.

The Gehry documentary was playing while I wrote this one. I used to talk some shit about this guy, and watching Sydney Pollack's movie about him makes me like Gehry the man less, but like his architecture a bit more. I like modern sculpture but I think his work is a little decadent (which is odd because he believes himself to be "non-decorative") and, like Gaudi, who I despise, I think his work won't age well. But I can't deny that a lot of his work is beautiful and awe-inspiring. Just not all of it.

Here's my poem:

LEAF

Buttons at the tips of batons,
all my patrons enjoy my marches,
I skate back up the ice in order
to encounter you, I sleep covered
in prints representing those favorite
Disney characters, those children's
rodents, disconnected from its
socket, dropped to the floor, legs
cut off and left sterile, lamp no more:
what is it now? Twelve stories
held open with brawling windows
all sorts of newspaper and shit flying
like a white, open summer shirt,
like a vegetable simmering on the skillet.

One Hundred and Seventh Entry

While I'm at work I'm posting poems later. And frankly, it's becoming harder to get it together, so let's hope for your sake I don't miss a day.

Also, I'm writing like 19 articles and they're all due this week. Busy.

Today's poem has an Adlai Stevenson reference. See if you can figure out what it is.

Here's my poem:

SHOELACE

Get ready to lick the piss off the chain link;
that’s what the people pay to see, now hurt
horses in your stable and walk around the block.
Your girlfriend is gross, I envy the lunches
the two of you ate with the food looking at you
and then talking to you, don’t wait for the translation,
scan the photos and tell me which one of these men
hit you. I was involved in the construction
of a rotunda, but it ended up not being rotund
enough. I’m breaking a contract that I never
agreed to. So what about your contract, this story’s
about me and who I choose to fuck around with.

I bent the edge of the bed, I’m always
doing that kind of thing, dear diary, Troy
said he’d take me out this weekend, but I
already have a date! What should I do?
Throw your dress in the stream and then
jump in after, some mockery of a fable,
ghost story turned boring.

One Hundred and Sixth Entry

I'm getting really into Chopped and Screwed DJ stuff lately, and I'm not sure if it's bad or good for me.

I'm really enjoying all the NaPoWriMo blogs and it takes up a fair part of my day just reading old and new ones. I'm starting a blogroll for them and I'll finish it tomorrow.

Here's my poem:

TELEPHONE

Borrowed a desk and went on the road,
it doesn’t drive well, up the hill is a pain
but we get the job done, quality is job one.
When I first foolishly stepped into the uniform
of a marine the air was blurry with its heat,
now my chest is all funny, breathing feels like
a crappy accordion, and I’ve quite lost
my taste for it.

These lesbians own a bar, they’ve spent
seventy-five thousand dollars on the jukebox
but it’s worthless, it almost never gets used.
My new headphones rule, thanks for buying them,
now my car drives are more miserable
because I have to think about the music
because my stereo’s broken. Still, nice of you
to think of me.

I tacked a piece of paper up on the cubicle.
Now it’s my cubicle, although some other dude
works in here when I don’t. I left burritos in the drawers
and glued the mouse to the desk and got fired.
Still, something new will saunter in around noon.

One Hundred and Fifth Entry

My body is tired after last night, but I think it was a real success. Thanks to all the readers and especially the audience. My back hurts so I'm going to keep this short and go lay down.

Here's my poem:

BACKPACK

Events vibrate through my bones,
that's how I hear about stuff,
I have a little system of my own:
feeling goofy in the shower, can't
believe you left your pants on,
but forget it, we're rolling, action.

Fancy desk and fancy pen, this
is later. The moisture makes
my window sweat, it hurts, baby,
my tummy is red inside, I look
nice with the colored lights
from the jukebox hanging out
on my face while I hang out
at this bar we like, telling a story.

I don't expect everybody's face
to be able to follow me here,
but this cave is really a nightclub
and we're going to enjoy ourselves,
false alarm, let's stay at home,
that television person's face floats
an inch above his head, which is
hurts me to look at, it's the perfect
size, I'm going to buy whatever this
guy tells me. Back to the show
about cops arresting

One Hundred and Fourth Entry

Today's the day of the Dick Pig, so if you don't already know I assume you don't care. Here's some other things that happened today:

Jesus Christ rose from the dead.
Grindhouse opened and I thought it was lame (sight unseen!)


Anyway, Nathan and I are debating poetic process and inspiration and he brought up an interesting point: the elitism of poetry. Though he was using it to describe inspired poems over procedure poems, I think both forms are equally presumptuous, as I think all art is. An artistic statement is, at it's most simple a "look at this!" statement, and believing you the artist have something worth looking at is presumptuous. That is, unless you believe everyone does, which I'm afraid I can't really go along with. Even if I were to believe everyone on this Earth creates art worth looking at, it doesn't mean they do. Also, if I were to be honest with myself, I wouldn't want to see a lot of people's contributions. My personal taste would then dictate what was worth looking at. Wow! The audience member is elitist too!

Even if you work with found art, your perspective, your "hey, look what I found" instinct is what makes it art. And that statement is an elitist one, especially since you believe that your art has value to you, but more than that, that it will be valuable to others. It could be argued (actually it should be argued) that art has worth to the community at large, as the 'antenna' as Pound sort of put it, a force inexplicably tied to the pulse of humanity and thereby a way to come to terms with that which we don't understand: namely, the future. Anything that could really be considered art looks to the future and thereby addresses the foibles of the present. But maybe it's the self-evaluation as an artist that's elitist over the actual art? What do you think?

Everybody come out tonight and party it up.

Here's my poem:

SKATE

My water has a name, and it has a past;
we can walk up the incline and find our car,
cheap wine dribbling from our stupids,
empty car, now it's amazing, we hung around
in the snowbank, I am given scissors
and told to prepare the statue for its destruction.

I kick it off of the mantle. Let's use caps lock here.
Let's find new places to drink that stuff, let's enjoy
the mall, it's our space, clean architecture and fountains,
oh my god you left your diary out now I can read about
the ice, how it hurt the inside of your mouth how
you spit it out. Every single day walking
train tracks, don't lay down for the ants, swing
at the gnats but they don't go away. This summer's
so wintery. Let's do this now. I own
this town, I can't get enough of this coffee.

One Hundred and Third Entry

I'm doing that day before, what-am-I-gonna-read game today. Also, today's poem is kind of out there. Nathan and I have been politely arguing about a number of subjects and it's starting to show up on our blogs and it's a good thing, so says I. See you tomorrow, 8 o clock at Galapagos.

Here's my poem:

CALCULATOR

We're all doing really well at this rave,
my sequins rustle in the dark, melting
like wolf-faces, it's time to dance, wolves
smelling my genitals as I wait in line.
The ferris wheel contained gum wrappers,
beasts and vampires live together
with heavy coats, the vampires don't fear
death. The vampires cash in their chips
when they leave Trambulin's Castle,
which is a place I just made up.

Empty your plate before you kick out
your shoes, no swimming now. I guess
I'm pretty good looking to you, won't
you accept this gift? Your honor,
I never accepted gifts before but the lady
was covered in rain and my shirt
was all wet, this is who I am, your honor,
a machine climbing from the tomb
ready to claim my bloody-eyed children
and enjoy your products.

One Hundred and Second Entry

So I'm not opposed to process poetry by any means. I write in a process, although a rather strange process by which I will alight temporarily on things on my desk or things in movies and books. That's a process, just as any poets is, from Keats to O'Hara and on. But it worries me that "process" is taking over the process. By that I mean that the poet is becoming lost in what he uses. This happens from time to time in all art, the medium over-taking the message. As much as Lichtenstein and Warhol were great in the Pop form, there were plenty of painters who got overwhelmed by the style. In fact, how often have we seen a poet get overwhelmed by formalism? Sonnets and sestinas often sound forced and stiff because the writer isn't up to the challenge of overcoming the challenge of form, and it is a challenge: Here's a form of a poem, let's see you make it your own.

Those poets who are fascinated with the randomness of internet "poetry" or "spam poetry," and I've seen from time to time poems fashioned from pre-randomized words found in an email. This, to me, often is less interesting than other forms of 'found' poetry, and it gets on my nerves. Those poets who choose to use this stuff as ammo for poems should be wary, I think, of the submissiveness such a move implies. Anyone can randomize words; these programs you see in your spam mail prove that computers can do it just as easily as you can. This is a rant and the first of its kind on my blog. It is not directed (honestly!) at anyone, but rather at memories of past such horrible poems and imaginary poets I like to believe are gobbling it up. Anyway, wasting time.

Here's my poem:


OATMEAL

Frozen inside a form of currency.
This is where I step away from yon teacup,
motivating a walk outside and a talk
of our "arrangement." Let's carry bottles
of window cleaner, we'll climb the sides
of buildings and pretend to be busy.
I dropped a key into the drawer of scrolls.
It's not mine to get back, and now I'm in trouble.

They were gathering in the library,
wearing masks, I enjoyed it but I didn't enjoy
seeing it, just the sounds of the fanfare
filled me with the ebullience of the tyrant;
now I'm important and others aren't. Why
don't I tower over you with my fancy rings,
laughing like a Colossus on Google Maps?
The wind outside is driving me bananas.

One Hundred and First Entry

If it's late in the day, it still counts a today's poem. Just because I'm not early to bed, early to rise, I don't want to hear any belly aching.

Here's my poem:

CHALK

Air whistling through skylight.
Today is nominal, restaurants remain
closed. I painted the sign to represent
the direction your car should go. My taxes
represent a year of holes filled with sand,
beaches dug up and replaced with cheaper
beaches. My house lives there on the coast,
not the one I own but the one that should
be mine. I read a book about someone doing well.

One Hundredth Entry

WOW! I've written a hundred poems since I started this blog in (insert correct date here.) And not only that, I've written who knows how many very dreadful poems? I usually put up incomplete or imperfect first drafts, but some things are too bad to even be shown to people. Also, I got a fair distance into a novel which I have shelved for the time being. Okay, okay, only fifty pages. Still, I'm writing a lot, huh? I'm gonna celebrate by drinking. At Danielle Ilyana Ben-Veniste's birthday party. Anyway, it makes me feel like I'm starting out strong this month, and since I'm attempting to put most of what you'll be seeing this month into a manuscript, I'm glad to see the poems a'piling up.

Don't forget the DICK PIG REVIEW at Galapagos this Sunday.

And then I'll be reading at the 440 Gallery on the 15th.

Here's my poem:

PILLOW

It takes time for appliances to come on, first
you press the button and then they hum. While I'm
sleeping in the basement, why don't you let that record
play? I nuzzled with warm coils, reading my submarine
books, why can't I be the leader of a certain adventure?
I'm constantly deferring to things and to people.
This is my first day of school. Everybody's leaving
my records out in the sun, or dripping the remnants
of their meals onto my clothes while I'm outside,
arguing on the phone with one of my mothers.

Everybody's leaving. I was dressed to impress
but it didn't impress and I couldn't talk
to any of the party-goers. I opened myself
to you with a fork from the kitchen, we looked
and we looked but there was no sign of life
and the case was eventually left unsolved.
What a funny kid I turned out to know, the kind
who balls his fists at the chess table and smiles
at the bar fight. I'm the sheriff of this town now,
and I'll be with you in a minute.

Ninety-Ninth Entry

The excitement is high as I reach the one hundred poems mark, I'm sure.

Actually it took a hell of a lot longer than it should to get to one hundred poems. But what am I saying? I might die tonight! Boy would that look foolish.

I'm unhappy to tell you that today I had my first difficulties in completing my poem. Hopefully I'll shrug this off and keep up my pace. I think I will.

Preparing things for the mother of all poetry readings, AN EVENING WITH THE DICK PIG REVIEW. It is going to be a hell of a lot of fun.

Here's my poem:

UMBRELLA

Can't tell what animal is wearing human clothes.
Got your note. I'm going to sleep in the attic
which we constructed inside a box in the cellar.
The windows shimmer with weather,
and I cling to my little sweater.

I held the phone to my ear, anticipating the tone,
knowing the loneliness of the late-night operator.
I could see the single light on in her office,
the massive switchboard, muttering low with
clandestine behavior. I need you to sit
on the edge of the bed in your underwear
while I dial.

I tripped in the park, a deep puddle,
suddenly I was drowning, my bubble mouth
emptied, there was a green light underneath
the rocks, but I decided to swim to the bottom
and hold my breath.

My parents finally gave me what I wanted.
Now it is morning, and rain snuck in
through the window, blessing all the sheets
with cold, it didn't leave my body the way
the arrow did, and I stayed prone as an animal
until someone cleaned me off.

Ninety-Eighth Entry

I can't believe I overslept and was late starting this year's NaPoWriMo!!!!???!!!!

No use crying over it, I'll just be adding a day onto the end.

My friend, co-worker, and poet extraordinaire Nathan Austin, and his co-conspirator, the lovely and talented and funny Gabriella Horn are both writing for this month too. And of course Maureen, Shanna, and a murder of other more popular bloggers than I (not that I mind, mind you, it's the work that matters, damnit) will also be participating in this grand poetic feat of arms. Golly!

Here's my poem:

SUITCASE

Textbook re-written through bull-dozer
song stuck in head, five hours in bus,
here's where I am in the universe: the middle.
Thrown pail of paint on red wall does no harm.
Always spreading the waves of the questions
throughout garden parties enlivened with writhing queens.
I've left harbor by now, tear-wet letters addressed
to every lover, now asleep on the pale spanish lilt
of wooden guitar. Asleep at security post,
enjoy striped tie. Triangle at noon, square at noon,
circle at noon. People buried all over the place,
somebody ought to gather that stuff together.