Tuesday, September 25, 2007

One Hundred and Forty-Fourth Entry

No excuses for how long it takes, I'm back with a new poem. I am losing steam though. I'm finding it harder and harder to balance my work and social life and girlfriend (yep) with my writing, but I work in cycles and I know it'll all come back. Also, I've been living with a horrible roommate, and we're finally getting rid of her. So maybe I'll spend more time at home working on things.

p.s. Hi Steve Caratzas!

Here's my poem:


Sometimes I actually disappear.
The gloves for heroes leave no prints or traces -
not to say I am a hero for standing still
and shivering until the form is blurred
and breaking open the combination lock.
I ask everyone if I can help them,
sometimes repeatedly, in my uniform
at the mall, "here are tears," they say,
and hand me many jars of glossy
liquid. I empty them in the fountain
and walk off with collected wishes -
being fictional is like wearing flannel,
the pattern becomes you, its heaviness
surrounds your words - second week
in the bubble palace and my reports
have all come in just under the wire.

The hero mask allows him or her
his or her privacy, the small spaces
in the apartment crevices - the sugar
dripping from the insect mouth -
in nature's mouth the filth is not filthy -
hideous is a burka used by patriots
in the real war - gentle noise brushing
your face in your sleep - my finger
when you don't know my finger.

No one gets to see me because I'm your tongue.
You wear me and I have nothing to wear.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

One Hundred and Forty Third Entry

Sooooo tired. And I have to be up very very early tomorrow. But I wrote a new poem and wanted to share it with you.

Here's my poem:


Sometimes I actually disappear -
it's late and I can walk on the tearful face of the dark god -
Brooklyn is a garbage-heap and it's all mine -
storefronts live by themselves with dull metal faces -
I wish in public, twittering like a nervous branch,
but my mouth controls my face - finds a way out -
there's no light behind the scrim -
I spit something into my eye -
my feet control the streetlights, unimportant hills
flatten, I disappear on the topic of photographs -
drawings stop looking like me -
items in my bed continue being there.

Someone is into combining anecdotes
and transmogrifying them into people -
they love each other. I'd be listening
for them curled in sleep but my breathing
holds me back - echoes in hollow halls -
I know how to obtain silence - puzzles fall into place
when played backwards on tape - there is no weather
in the reflection of cars, but swelter here,
I peel off everything I can.

Sunday, September 09, 2007

One Hundred and Forty Second Entry

Sorry about the pause, busy social life plus a new semester at school plus not feeling incredibly inspired equals not a lot of writing.

Poems of mine have been accepted in a couple of places, not telling where yet until they come out.

Hope you're having a nice day.

Here's my poem:

Plans to destroy the south.
Every newborn is pressed against tree
and reminded of history of lynching,
left to their own devices.
Many survive, new human territory
combined with bees, new hives,
skin formed from blood and detritus,
another Cormac Mccarthy novel.
Books on my shelf also include
particles of dust and the aroma
of indifference. Tried to get into apocalypse,
sweat-damp summer sheets,
me looking off in a direction.
Dirty floors and empty objects,
the wall doesn’t change for hours,
and the changes are minuscule.
Some sort of secret volcanic transition
beneath the surface. Eyes act funny,
eyes don’t record, and they don’t “see,”
only reflect images.

The person I sort of knew died.
Clothes get folded and then stretched
over the body, crumpled-abandoned,
pushing chair back from desk
on its little wheels. Hell is the apathy
of loneliness, objects being piled
as they fall forming unwanted architecture.
The weather often inspires in me a parallel reaction

I cover my summer body with blankets.

What are those dust particles floating towards.

I miss you

I love poetry.