SINGLE. SOLITARY. WORD.

Everyone Smiles - (rwp prompt #24 "jargon")

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 13:59:41 GMT

Sign in.
Climb the stairs to the
Universe.
it's there - on the door. with my awful picture.
Sit for twenty minutes
as they pile in.
Good Morning, Amanda Teacher
Good Morning, Heidi. How are you?
I'm so happy.
That's good.

One electric arpeggio later
Purple Books?
Yes. Purple Books.
F-Fan
F-Feather
F-Frog
Repeat.
Listen.
Repeat.
Arpeggio bell.

Apples/bread/juice/?
Another bell.

An hour. Three years old.
Good morning Sarah Teacher
Amanda Teacher
Good morning Sa-Amanda Teacher
How are you?
How are you?
No - I'm fine thank you.
I'm fine thank you.
How are you?
How are you.
No, I'm -- bell.

Soup. rice. kimchee.
more please
finished please.
more bells.
more bells.
more bells.

I should know.
more homework. Check it.
I should know. Don't check it.
less homework. Check it.
i should know. you should know.
no mistakes. they're paying for you.
no mistakes. they want results.
no mistakes? none.
you should know.
i should know. I'm

half.
done.
with.
this.

Mid-Afternoon

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 06:09:14 GMT

On Ponce de Leon there is a man
A blind man who wears spandex shorts
in the middle of winter.
He stands there at the corner
While you wait for the light
to turn.
Your friend - who is driving -
cannot make the air conditioning work
And Moreland is already backed up
the heat makes it look like
a melting painting
And you're staring at this blind man.
Because he can't see any of this.
or you.

Return Ticket (rwp prompt #23 "oil and vinegar")

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 05:56:34 GMT

Along a path driven only by soldiers and messengers
In a blur of expectation, whistling, boiling
There are stones in all of our shoes
Climbing each step with building certainty
We all sat down to empty them and prepare
My eyes growing out of my head and pulling
When out of the sky flew a lightening bird
Like an eager dog on a sort leash
It sang through the air in an evil hiss
Scouring for faces, familiar eyes and noses
It wrapped its eager talons around our arms
Built into one long overgrown memory, smiling
It burned our eyes and everywhere, all around
Make one giant long-legged leap into their arms
There were images of those we missed the most
And breathing deep the scent of care and calm.
There was damage of untold proportions
Surely there’s no greater day than this
Every chest I’ll cling to and every cheek I’ll kiss.
Our eyes flickering like birthday candles.

Can Only Speak for Me - (rwp prompt #22 "speak freely")

Sat, 12 Apr 2008 04:53:24 GMT

I can see them in pictures
in shreds of old paper
pasted to books, mounted on walls
I've never known these faces
or could pretend to know
pain like this

I wander about my one-room
in a small city in Korea
thousands of miles from
any news. any update.
I could find it all somewhere
but I don't.

If i keep it at arms length
if i speak out in passion when
i feel compelled to do so
then I've done my part - haven't I?
I've made my mark
I've done nothing.

Even now on my bed
I pound the keys in vain
I live a thousand seconds of peace
and never feel one of them
as hard or as long
as they might.

Evening Continued

Wed, 09 Apr 2008 11:41:06 GMT

try as it might this day will not wind up
it's cord unleashed in the alley
frightened tail-less cats darting
this way and that

i've sat atop the hill all day waiting
for the wind to blow me over
onto the other side so i can roll
on into the street

instead i seem stuck like a pin in it
the people blow and swirl around me
but i am static, constant, unwavering
quite involuntarily

there was a stretch in the early morning
when i was not awoken from a strange dream
or a passing pain or ailment
and i was thankful

but now i grab the night's arms
and shake it into submission, saying
"i'll pull shut the window and light my candle -
make you lie awake with me."

Aunts - 4/8/08 (for readwritepoem.org)

Tue, 08 Apr 2008 10:47:15 GMT

when i was a baby
they put their sunglasses on me
and called me "pee-pie"
now it's "peep"

three sisters.
bicker, fight, scratch
like they were still 12
and 10 and 6.

on holidays we lay out
on Melita's bed
and give backrubs.
but Khrissi has the long nails

so you want to get
in front of her.

Who Does This? - 3/30/08

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 12:40:55 GMT

i changed the world once.
it was a beautiful thing.
in two moments the whole planet
was tied up in string.
and everyone believed
and everyone called out
the earth shook with their madness
it was the end of all doubt

I sailed the sea once
it was the first time for me
for forty-seven days the whole ocean
was at my command
and everybody saw it
and everybody sighed
they all thought i'd forget that
but it was I who had tried.

I made my own dress once
it was covered in lace
the kind that no one wears anymore
my name sewn into the back
and everyone laughed
and no one would wear it
but i never asked them to. it was my dress.
and it was a beautiful thing.

i woke up once
covered in flowers.
where on earth did they come from?
ah! they grew from my skin
and everyone awed
and everyone picked
a flower from me in the morning
and who could blame them?

I cried once.
that is entirely untrue
I've cried so many times i've lost count
the tears and my cheeks are inseperable
and everyone has seen
and everyone remembers
they've wondered how to respond
and nothing comes to mind.

A Bit of Prose - 9/6/07

Thu, 06 Sep 2007 06:12:59 GMT

It’s just all these damn waves. At first they’re refreshing. You walk through the water like you do in your dreams, slow and encumbered. The tiny, odd, waves splash your shins in hopes of making some small impression. This, to me, is like the beginning of one’s life in love. They may be twelve, sixteen, twenty, but it’s still the beginning. The waves are small and harmless, and what little annoyance they present is overpowered by the simple joy of entering this point in life. Where there had been no feeling before, there was now the feeling of loss. Where there had been no heart before, there was now heartbreak. A sense of cool washes over the part of you that is now engulfed in emotion, I can feel now! And even though the walk is slow and the transition on the dry parts of skin is somewhat shocking and painful, the waves are still refreshing.

I find that when the water reaches the waist and creeps up toward the chest – lapping as it does – there is the most awkward discomfort. A chill reaches your heart at this point and whispers urgently, “you’re not getting out now, not for a while. It will be too cold to be out of the water now.” That is the moment just before the bigger waves start coming. Someone might dodge a few to spare their face and hair for the time being, but, sooner or later, they are going to take the plunge. One giant wave will look you in the eye and tell them what you have always wanted to hear. I will be refreshing. I will be what you expected. I will make this long walk and the awkward parts in between all worth the while. And you will believe the foamy, watery mass headed toward you, an you will not jump and catch the break in your midsection, stinging. You will dive straight in, and it will be glorious. The water sinks through your hair, in and around every strand and onto your scalp, onto your sun-burnt face and the rest of your neck, and you feel completely at ease. Completely satisfied here, under the wave and its promise. But you tumble about for a bit and you can’t breathe under here. You can’t function like you would normally function. You can’t walk while you are floating, and the water is becoming shallow again. The wave is headed toward the shore, toward the rest of your past.

You emerge unlike yourself, your hair matted down to your head, your eyes stinging. The heartbreak doesn’t bite like it used to. Where there was a joy in newly knowing how to feel, there is now a throbbing normalcy. The only thing left to do is go back under, but your big wave is gone. There are medium sized waves that serve some purpose, but soon enough, you are ready to get out of the water. Your legs are tired and your hands are wrinkly and you feel older and your heart is too calloused for its own good. You turn to walk back toward the shore, but the rough, medium-to-large waves hunt you down on your way back. They crash on your neck, your shoulder blades, the middle of your back. All begging for attention, all stinging and reckless when you turn to meet them.

Finally, after that long, arduous walk, you reach the shore again and you lay for a while on the sand in the sun, drying, wondering why the water ever seemed so appealing in the first place. After a while, though, the waves will call again. The bad memories will have dried into or off of your skin and you will long for the cool again. You will venture, hair still matted to your skull, to find the spark of something you thought you left behind you a long time ago. You feel the cool shallow water at your heels and you feel that same joy and excitement at the idea of love and you feel wise enough now to appreciate it. You could stay in this water forever now that you understand it. It is fulfilling and it is exciting. You know the parts of this ocean that make you happy and the parts that are the most challenging, and you would never have known any of it had you not taken the plunge in the first place.

I hope.

An Acronym - 6/17/07

Sun, 17 Jun 2007 08:24:48 GMT

Simply breaking everything
And whether it be me or whoever
Breaking bloody everything
Only to realize that it must be done and
Telling myself otherwise is ridiculous -
Anything can happen. Things change.
Getting down to the bottom of things
Eventually just leaves you there. At the bottom.

Prayer for the Well-Endowed (A Very Bad Poem) - 4/20/07

Fri, 20 Apr 2007 19:54:35 GMT

To be honest, I hate them.
They’re always in the way
They never stay where they’re
Supposed to.
When I want to flaunt them,
I look like a hussy
When I want to hide them …

I look like a hussy

Who is hiding (but of course
Secretly flaunting) her…
…her…
whatever.

At least that’s how it feels.
Plenty of people have them
Slightly fewer are troubled by
Large.
Ish.
…whatever. We have them.

And I’m thankful for what
God gave me, I’m only saying
“God…please bestow on all
of us ladies with…yes. Those. exactly…
fit all of us with a
Stronger.
Back.”

Please.

Amen.

Very Important – 4/19/07

Thu, 19 Apr 2007 19:07:37 GMT

Suspended – the flesh chain hooked in my palm
The anchor writhing at the base
Transfixed by anticipation, a rope climb
My feet are slipping off the twine
A tiny bead starts at my crown
And makes a drive
Down, down, pushing past hairs
Too small to see with the naked eye.

Deep pulses create small ripples in an
Otherwise peaceful, tiny ocean
The man on the wheel burning, running
His feet are beating, keeping time
A lurch, leap off the weathered landscape
Soaring into a dive
Down, down, pushing through the air
Onto the mat with the rest to die

And as he lies there, I will pull again
My own weight cheering on,
Wearing Gravity’s steel uniform. Listen,
The ceiling bell will chime
And simultaneously the rope will fray
Awake and alive
Down, down, pushing through the stares
To rest on solid how and why.

The End of Crazy and Strange - 4/18/07

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 20:51:12 GMT

on the one hand i can't blame you
for successfully unwriting my face
for setting the rubber to the paper
and leaving memory to rot in motion
forgetting is simpler than i thought.

on the same hand i commend you
for being so true to yourself
for uncharacteristically revealing
and tearing more open than i could
to think i thought you were the silent one.

on the other hand, however, it is difficult
for me to grasp your indignation
for me to unclench from your word
and you gave that to me. remember?
i think i know it's better now.

put those hands together, and you've got it
the final motion in the symphony of the year
the one complimenting the other
the strain lifted in the resulting clap
and i'm not ever looking back. so thank you.

Untitled - 3/10/06

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 19:15:28 GMT

i drove 15 miles to the equator
met with a cloudy, snowy storm
and i was thinking maybe later
we'll wear our sunglasses, be warm

and there she was sitting like a bat out of heaven
a razor sunbeam in her hand
my face, an army, deepened and driven
a twisted turnstile in a sea of sand

"you've got your things," she said "we're leaving"
all our bags were at the door
and there she was again, just breathing
shaking her head as she looked at the floor

"i'll be right back, i promise" i said
"left the armful of things you told me to sell"
but by then she was miles ahead.
me, left to catch up, run like hell.

M'Aussi - 5/5/06

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 19:05:32 GMT

i want to write this day into stars
and spread it out on all fours for
mister mister walk-about to read
the anchor - whats my sign? doubt, lead
another teller, speak it further,
keep my letters, sweeten no other.

he wants the million heartshaped boxes
all cut into tiny squares, locked up
and built into the frame of his bones
before Venus sees her shadow in his loan,
before he flies away, before he takes
it out in one giant chain of red lace.

if i could speak but for one of them, i would,
and my sequined trifle would lend to common good
a sweet slow and trivial strand of common thread
tucked in pocket, unravelling brilliant red
until a line is drawn from here in jest
breathing wanton pigment tames the mess.

yo no tengo miedo, nada da mí temo
porque la verdad es en mi mano, te tengo.
tus ojos no son para líneas, y no mío,
pero ellos son para estes espacios
en nos cabezas donde los mantenemos.
que tenemos? me contestas, "lo tenemos."

The Charge - 6/6/2006

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 19:00:03 GMT

feeder or feed her, the marvelous
mind reader, carving up labels and
sticking up canvas. a stick up!
give it over! she's won the whole table
her hands are suspicious, red-hot ladles
for all kinds of sticky triumph.

blessed or bless'd head, beautifully
misled, pirching on guilty left turns
in the sky. didn't signal! he cried
make it half of the sky, you can keep
my heart locked in its cave til you sleep.
it wont be better if it's silent.

just nip it, the nic fit, it's all just
a habit, the mystery of loss is enough to
be ill from. find out! find it better!
be a lesson in stride, calm the trenches
where shells fill the old lovers' benches
breathe in all your relief - exhale.

A Haiku - 6/30/06

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 18:57:39 GMT

one day i'll read books
bound with smart leather covers
that sing me songs, too.

2:38:43 AM - 8/17/06

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 18:55:05 GMT

think i blew out the last one (on a slow whim)
fancied out rather further than high
the mark tells a story all but glorious and sly
still sings like a flute, fingers like a hymn

she was bent on a hell-bent, hell-raising lie
told herself late on a felt-tip(ped) pen
"whale of a story you tell yourself, men"
bless their heart, though, right? "they do try."

if you would go on go on go on please pass through
our bricks have eyes, but only their sad color
is rust like the rest of them, somehow duller
when lying, packed in walls, with nothing to do.

all bad punctuation aside - or feeling on hold -
the scent of our loss is still beating around us
and all we can do is stay glued to the ground lest
our powers deny us; at least that's what we're told.

Sonnet is Tonnes Backwards - 10/10/06

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 18:53:29 GMT

her mother made a pretty coffin nail
the size of an enormous valiant horse
and longer you stared it was a whale
her favorite of the beasts on earth, of course.
two hours flung her in to grips with charm
a smallish battle to outwit the smile
and there she stood together, save one arm
a bitter test of luck, this minute mile.
and who do you think she would call on first
this man of learning and his coat of snakes?
all mines and caverns lurking dark and curs'd
driving so lightly so's to seldom break
but all your fairly frequent tatters lie
and my eyes daring to become too dry.

It's Not About This, But it is - 1/11/07

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 18:50:22 GMT

cells from my fingers are still attached
to the ledge. long years of cliff-hanging
have finally turned to a plummet
in a cloud of smoke i'll land at the bottom
like the coyote, i'll hold up my "jack ass" sign
and sigh an uneventful sigh
life goes on

and maybe it's not down i fall, but ahead
fall. ahead. like a warning out of a story
featuring a curvy mountain road, i stretch forward
fall. ahead. be a compass for the "ants" below
the tiny satellite figures crawling on my globe
and, untimely as it is, i sense it
feel it coming

so i draw the line from where i was to where i am
and where i am to what i see ahead whether it's
the best path or the beaten one, you see
i'm only going forth, and forth was never explicated.
never a cardinal direction associated,
a coordinate assigned, or a finger pointed, so
off i go.

though they narrow their eyes above their coffee
and use the words the system taught them, i refuse
to make a mockery of my blessing, my priority
and i'll put fist through every cinderblock
until it's finished, until i can rest, until
there is a dusty hallway full of it, and
i can't breathe.

who knows if they're even related, i certainly
do not plan on making that connection, i simply
wanted to describe the daily, the normal, the
admonishable sins my eyes and ears and life have
committed just by seeing, hearing and living;
wanted to just pass it into script and leave it
on this page.

Non-Stick - 2/27/07

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 18:48:47 GMT

O wicked judgement, i am deceived
you had me fooled again, i believed
myself immune, somehow, unable
to be reeled, somehow more stable
but of course, maestro, of course you came
ruined my chances to stay the same,
and you dance into circles and sneak
into my ears and brush past my cheek!
O Muse! find another little girl
to fool, flutter and promise the world
i promise another would fit you
and make like i could, like i ought to.
but chances are you will stick around
no words, no breath, we can't make a sound
and merry in our silence we'll break
every rule the masters dare to make.

Wind Out - 2/17/06

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 17:45:53 GMT

sometimes we have to take some wind to keep
some in our lungs where breathing sleeps
and all these nights i've floundered and sighed
and wished that you'd give me a piece of your dry
wood for the bonfire, they feel like their done
and yet subtley writhing in attics too stunned
to be careful and sure or to make like a tree
and get the hell out of this while i'm still me
but your wind is important, it just can't be the why
or the how in this matter; i'll just have to lie
to myself for a while and pretend that i'm gone
while a part of me sits, prays, and waits to be won
back and forth and still lies in the storm
like a palm with her coconuts strewn in the sand
she'd bend down and retrieve them if she had arms or hands.

Veera Sundari - 4/11/05

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 17:45:16 GMT

jumping soundlessly from her
pedestal of cellotape tyranny
beach water stinging heels
her reddened eyes a shameless
mockery of sadness.

she laughs too loud and cares
too silently while crying
out symphonies directed at
pavement and windows and
keyboards and stones.

why confusion why
why waiting or build-up keep
yelling for nothing and singing
at no one for nothing they did
to deserve all this sleeping.

and inhilation slowly sobering
healthy adoration fueling
rainy thoughts and foggy dreams
don't ask her don't tangle her
chance to be fearless.

Untitled - 12/20/05

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 17:44:28 GMT

shoe laces broken, tripping, dying
tying loose ends with loose attention, frying
eggs with needles, to health and to pain, to just
making a living or making it rain, or just
living the battle, not living the death
don't you fake our heart out, don't waste your breath
on just being alive, giving it up to the tide
be the torment of triumph, helium heart in the sky

Untitled on a Mountain - 2/5/05

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 17:43:48 GMT

Deeply thrilling porcelain frailty
Extended and trembling arms
Grasp tight the fragile prize
Bristling with cold and height
And anxiety, the bauble cracks
Shattered and glittering with
Dissapointment fearing irreplacement
The upturned and genuine eye alive
With beautiful glistening remorse
So blissful as it seeks Constance still
Now in Greatness a precious stone bestowed
The faith and facet of which naught
Could shatter, destroy, or conquer
And the smallest pieces of that
Failed fancy find a shameful task
In reflecting its glow.

These Walls - 2/18/05

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 17:42:46 GMT

Healthy new uncharted
Editions nurse the broken
Spines of others while nearby
A father ages in black and
White-washed walls.

Mezzo-American seafoam green
Adored by few but hung
By many keeps the Northern
Chill from rattling safer
Copies as it crawls.

Ophelia and her mates lie flat
And have to wait near the water
Transport and busy bustling
Parties frozen still in tangram
Patterns on the wall.

A hole wherefrom the notes
From all the Irish belting
Blokes and resting flimsy on
The case that holds a trifling
Fraction of it all.

That big thing is hard to
Move around and around
We go but nothing
Matters quite as much outside
These four adorned brick walls.