Works in Progress

 

getting-my-hair-did.jpg

 I usually don’t post poetry to the web–not for free.

But then the words “usually” and “poetry” have not come from my mouth in the same sentence for a few years now.  I have done very little new writing.

Like the shallow breathing I have refused to commit to for the last few years, this silence is not an effort so much to stop the words as it is not putting forth much effort to make them happen at all.   Because like the breathing, they don’t feel good.  But–again like the breathing–they will and do happen.  Shallow though they be.  Whispers though they be.

I know I will live forever regardless of whether I put forth the effort to build the monument or not.  And so, the words y’all…Here are some of them.  Not that this is a celebration.  Yet.  Sometimes the oasis in the middle of the desert is nothing more than a mirage.

Blah, blah, I ramble.  Here’s the show you came to see:

Hangnails 

 

will not 

be that girl;

feel that thing,

know that

like

that.

so i

keep you to myself

closet you

in a bin

of unused things

pass you cautiously

smell you, stale,

every time

i

open that door;

ignore you like

i can.

my hands

will not be stilled;

mock me in hang nails;

drift

into emails

i delete

you

like the

recycle bin

is not already full

of you

like

new;

you never left.

won’t be that girl.

brown of me

spreads like

rice

whole;

too much

to thin into

cracks

where you

won’t find this girl. 

30 August 2007

______________________________ 

Yellow
for Newark  

 

summer sweet corn and sunshine

bright like

promises broken, shattered

turn diamonds beneath its rays.

i stare into you;

wish this kind of forever

wasn’t the blinding kind. 

 

hope commission reports

“okay” has been legislated:

five years for a nine, deuce-deuce—numbers with new names;

after school songs, high stepping sass; 

winter.

in time yellow fades

into the white of

clouds.

even granite is tested;

cracked by time. 

rain downpours, then spits,

then drought. 

but first,

the band bows;

stadium sleeps

before an eruption of cheers

and sanctioned body to body combat.

you become a silence

painted into a mural

of yellows,

reds, oranges, royal blues, and emerald greens

 

screaming for “okay” to take on a new face. 

i see yours.

i hear you laugh.

know you’re still laughing.

and really:

that’s okay.

 

4 September 2007

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