Monday, February 18, 2008

One Hundred and Fiftieth Entry

Wow! I reached a buck fifty! Congrats go out to myself.

Honestly, every poem is a little victory. I keep myself so busy. And aside from work, this is supposed to be what I work on the most, but I'm sure everyone reading this knows how it is.

I've started a new project, because it interests me and, for the time being, I need a project in order to keep myself motivated. It involves a book of new york times headlines that Gina gave me. I just love old timey reporting language. And presidents. One of them appears in my poem. I'm thinking of calling the project "Fit To Print." Is that too much?

Here's my poem:


Strike spreading across twelve and a half faces.
Bruising is the first sign of communication.
Wilson to summon me, anxious, sitting on staircase,
well-lit, my feet crunching through plaster on rugs.
Eggs. Eggs is what I keep thinking of, working
through white plaster -- my toes are wiggling
in my boots with much effort. Snug in a blanket
of my making. Still hoping for harmony.

Berger says he will run again. My phone shudders.
Soon he will call me back, crazy, near freezing
in the fog shoulders of a wooded area.
Quit running. The city will continue to effect you.

Still, compromise spirit grows. The stairs are swept.
Ten hundred women and men in black sweatshirts
means we have beaten death and our parents.
We have won. We are all standing together for a while.
Was a missionary leader a hero for saying
what no one listened to? I wake up in my city
to missionaries burning. I wear a missionary shirt
the next day and walk all over town.

The letter came in the evening:
"You're supposed to care about this."

Monday, February 04, 2008

One Hundred and Fourty-Ninth Entry

Well, you remember how I thought the year was looking up for me? Well, that was for a particular reason. And I wasn't, like, 100% right about that reason. But I'm still right! This month and it's subsequent days have been great for me, full of fun and change and small successes, which add up, gentle reader.

Anywho, trying to finish the last edit of the book and get SERIOUS about new poems. Starting here!

Here's my poem:


Plain colors hold weight like fat smart kids stay alone.
A happy survey-taker waltzing through the medium length lawn,
getting to your doorstep, my cold and fragile petunia, and asking
much of himself, patting the tan suitcase leather as he is allowed
inside, the day frothing into the window-shades and the iced tea
perspiring like a fat kid.

And when holding onto your fat kid while he waits for the bus,
the bus that will never support his frame, remember the bus is ending;
the bus that is yellow as your child’s heart, remember the bus is ending;
ending itself on constant comic cliffs in the anecdotes of others,
and ending in the way all events have already happened,
our certainty in the spots of rust mottling the thin metal,
too thin to save a life, to thin to make a fair comparison to your child,
our certainty which we hold in our heart like a disembodied hand
over our chest, a feminine hand full of love as pockets are occasionally
full. With different items. Which the survey-taker, glancing
at his own body, is now suddenly too hasty to talk about,
collecting his various garments and official items, rushing the door
as if you are rushing him, my friend, my dear exotic friend.

Who smells like perfume, because that’s what people do.
Our children walk along familiar paths,
home as if there were only one;
they are safe, and we worry for them.
As the sun turns to the other side of our planet
the news-anchors put bibs on over the suits and blouses
because they, like you, need water, and spiders
trickle these small bits of moisture, emptied inexplicably
from somewhere in their bodies, down the line of web
connecting one corner of your wooden garage interior
to the other.