Wednesday, December 9, 2015

A random poem...

Oh, Monday

I talk to you in my head, you know.
What's funny is,
I don't have your phone number.

So, I imagine the conversation
the way I would want it to go
the way it would probably go.

Why is it never enough? I ask,
no I insist,
Why is it never enough.

The real you wouldn't be able to tell me
and *my* you shrugs and smiles,
"It's only enough when you say it is,
but when has it ever been enough
for *you*?"

I couldn't even begin to describe
the sound of his heart on his wrist,
the touch of his fingers on my knee,
the smell of the cool side of his pillow.

I don't have the courage to.

 I mean, what's the point?

The real me aches to pack my bags,
run from all the well kept secrets
that alcohol is so urgent to bring out
and live in the shadow of an unnamed mountain.

The real me wants to tell you
all of these things,
ask and ask and ask,

What is enough?

Are you ready for me?

Where should we go next?

And then I forget, I don't even have your phone number.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Day 11 - Free Write

Final night of being sick I was tired of being in bed - yes that is possible.


It starts at my finger tips
and calves -
       as if they're expecting
       a quick get away
       or deflection.

I never know what
to do with my hands
       so I draw
       diagrams of how this
       disease can help make
       my life that less

I keep moving my
legs hoping they'll
       wear each other out
       as if rubbing them together
       would burn this feeling

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Day 10 - Free Write

Okay, this one is pretty lame but I had this poem in my head while on loads of flu medicines.

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

So here's mine - obviously not at great as WCW's but a weird drug induced attempt

Dear Pen
   Yes you are
   so bright blue and silver

I just couldn't let
you lay untouched
on a dirty counter top

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Back to life

Sorry for the delay but have been battling the flu for 3 days. I promise to be back tomorrow!

Day 9 - A Letter

So there I was - lying in bed, in the cool dark bedroom with a cold towel across my forehead - and then the crying of an infant. The downstairs neighbors have a teeny tiny baby and I'm not sure if it was "maternal instinct" or that it was 3AM that I woke up and wrote this.

A Letter of Complaint

Dear Sir or Madam
     I congratulate you on
            your success of procreating.

I marvel at your way of
      not paying mind to your baby.

I especially love it
     when it cries downstairs at 3AM.

Every. Single. Morning.

So, please kindly stop these notes
        left on my door.

I know my dishwasher is
      on at 6AM.

Your Neighbor

Monday, April 8, 2013

Day 8 - Free Write

On this day, the temperature reached 92 degrees --- I can almost taste Summer. I'm both excited and terrified of this Summer, I think it's going to be record breaking heat (scary) but I do live in an apartment with a swimming pool (not so scary).

A Love Song for Summer

Actually -
     a loveish kind of
     song for the upcoming
     TEXAS summer.

Summer -
    You will come without
    warning within the
    next 21 days.

    and you will burst
    all over flowers and
    and hills and make
    living here

When does Fall start?

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Day 7 - Free Write

This one was written under the influence of flu meds and 14 hours of rest and reading Jane Austen.

The Soloist

Lying in bed I
       hear the soloist.

racing and rummaging
through the hollow chambers -
where are they?

Who shows up late
         for a soloists' recital

Where has all decorum gone?

Do they not see -
         see how long I've practiced?

Can they not hear
         the echoing, resonating
         palpable sound of my solo performance?

Where is my symphony?