Thursday, February 12, 2009

Elephants








"If the elephants have past lives yet all destined to always remember

It's no wonder how they scream
Like you and I they must have some temper..."

Rachael Yamagata - Elephants

Saturday, October 18, 2008

arial

sometimes
i think poems sound better
in ten point font

Monday, October 13, 2008

untitled

A month, maybe more, now
I am looking for the right paper
not words,
to use

Sprawled across my desk
Are all manner of post-its, notepads, binders, and thin spiral notebooks
I am not in college anymore
My handwriting is too confined by lines
none will do.

At home, there is a box
Of papers bought for cards, papers 
With raised and embossed velvet, too many fibres,
Shiny green, red, black paper holiday colors

In my bag, 
The one that I carry around with me
a journal of handmade paper.
With a length of twine to wrap around;
Keep it closed

My poetry, my life
Somewhere in the middle,
I cut out a rectangle
Uneven
So I keep cutting
before beginning to write.

Dear Andrew,

Sunday, September 28, 2008

closure


it was the night. it was the last night. 

i stopped you, my elbow at your ribs, my arm wrapped around the front of your body,
stay like this, i said, holding you by your waist. I have to ... 
my head left 
so i took him by my small hands
i took him and saw things I had never seen before,
a few freckles on his cheeks, a few hairs between his busy eyebrows
a chin cleft shallower than i thought
i had no need to see

my hands were not done yet, my hands savored this
founding the smallness of his waist, the broad expanse in his shoulders, the blades protruding and pointy
the hair curled around the nape of his neck, 
memorizing the exact height of his collarbone, the faint dusting of golden brown hair above his pants
the surface of his pale skin, the smoothness until right below his neck
a few teenage aberrations still clinging to this manly back

i'm tired, he said.

my hands turned him around
my hands found what they were looking for that night

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

it is just art, is all

there is a photograph on the wall
I don't even know
I am looking at it
when you come to mind

every ghetto every city every
black and white outline detailing the grimness
the grime;
every place a reminder
of the way things could have been

how long am I waiting
for myself to come around
Come out of this.
stare through the photo and see nothing at all
or better yet
a photograph.

Friday, August 22, 2008