poems from 2011 |
2011 a cork for the collection written on: 01.10.11 I noticed a wine stopper working its way to the end of the bar tonight. End over end. Top over bottom. Upsetting itself like an upset stomach. His hand shot out so fast that the wrinkles blurred away. A past spent trading cartridges for kin has taught this dodger that, in life, reflexes are a man's best friend. Before reaching the lip of a wooden world; his fingers grasp the plug and prop it- end over end, top over bottom, setting it up like a totem pole puppet. We spoke of the liquids floating in rows behind the bar. "Our whiskeys do love to reminisce whenever it's been years since their last glass kiss." I said this, as I located the shot glass, the one at the back of the rack, on the bottom of the stack. "A little dust adds a vintage touch." --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- a poem for marc with a 'c' written on: 01.11.11 The snow makes us sleepy. The calm blankets, our stretch of apartments. If the sun rises in the next hour a piece of frozen steak might appear on the stove. But you wouldn't know anything about sunrises and frozen foods, would you? You're too busy sleeping off the booze. Marc was right about one thing though; his name should end with that letter. Creepy, cautious, crafty, coy, cunning, and cabalistic. Do not count the number of kisses cautiously placed on the lips of just friends. The importance peels away with the sun the morning after being made. I just can't count on things that lose their value so quickly. Much like a tide that won't make up its mind about drifting. We are people. Marc is a person. Make only the mistakes that might learn us lessons. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- those that send off a shower of sparks written on: 01.12.11 When I see your name in my mailbox I take the stairs two at a time, and slide through the door of my apartment. The white paint peels remind me of snow that flakes from the window sills; slowly sliding into melt. Each winter the trees are forced to give up on their leaves. The winter months prove their resilience by the swelling bark and frozen branches. As absurd as it sounds, I grow heartened by the flares flickers glitters and gleams purchased two states over in the fall of '07. When we first watched those sparks form against the heavens- an illumination that disappeared behind smoke screens, producing little paper parachutes just like the one I'll make from your letter. A ghost, hovering above the cottages. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- slumber parties written on: 01.13.11 she said goodnight and i said shut up you're keeping me awake like a biatch then something about sticking my thingy thing in her mouthy mouth we tossed around a bit before delicately sliding her finger into my nostril she recoiled, whipping the crumbs onto my side of the pillow we attempted forty winks but fled beneath the blankets instead i let her know how great it felt to have her face against mine she started to speak giggled and admitted that she spit a little in my beard we will laugh about this in the morning our matrimonial slumber parties. we laugh a lot. the computer thought i was thinking biotech when i typed biatch --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- stellar plate poems written on: 01.14.11 Poetry should be like a snowfall. Each competed poem a carefully crafted frozen vapor ready to bank on a page. It's voice covering your mind like a sheet that's stretched out just right, a drift that settles upon you in the middle of the night; forcing you to race to write it down. Take this poem home, let it's slush linger in your living room. A square sheet of words, written while the winds swept in between the buildings. Folded in half, and then folded again. The creases like drifts in the strokes of a pen. Scissor a rift and remove a few sections from that folded poem. While the icicles encircling the doorknob splinter in the sunshine, unfold the work, let it hang in your window- and hold you over until next winter. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- cold cold cold cold cold cold cold written on: 01.18.11 I want to write poems about warm weather, and days spent under a blanket of sunshowers. Each year the winter really digs its nails into this city. A never-ending avalanche of frozen toes and severe cold. My collection of t-shirts counts for nothing when I am forced to hibernate in winter coats for month, after month, after dreadful winter month. This climate reminds me of a tale someone once told me about how eskimos only get cold when the sunshine reminds them that they live in frozen houses. Beating a snow rug, they wince at the sight of that golden burning ball. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- we felt the sun in our eyes written on: 01.19.11 We felt the sun in our eyes, waking us just before the afternoon hit Chicago like a wave. Our cats tore through the wrapping paper. Their tiny claws tapping out morse code on the crinkly shreds while our pupils adjusted to the light. In my mind, just past the reflection of a jet streaking across the sky, I thought of you and the big decisions that face a soldier miles from home. More crinkling, a few jumps, and another plane strokes the horizon with its wingtips. Those honorable injuries suffered at the hands of distance, seclusion and homesickness will eventually roll up in a knapsack. Storing themselves securely behind a bed somewhere in the states. There's nothing wrong with wishing for happiness. To belong. To be exactly where you need to be. Like one of those airplanes when they finally feel the rumble of the gears, and the landing strip being erased beneath their weight. Soon the sand will disappear behind you. A shrinking desert somewhere in the past and in the distance a future will get bigger. More apparent with each pull of the oar or gust of wind. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- somewhere between aging and asleep written on: 01.20.11 I watch the bus putter past the double doors of the Thai restaurant, it's breaks ringing out like creaky floorboards as it pauses to pick up a young couple wearing orange. Meanwhile, I'm marking interesting words in an old Irish Heritage magazine noticing the cracks in my fingers, the weather beaten feel of fraying knuckles relying on moisture to ink up the hardened skin. Waiting on an air current to exhaust the lotion that was bought one year ago at an airport newsstand. The candied aroma of flowers hovered through the terminal that afternoon, softening the tension as Midway exhausted itself searching for a series of lost coins, paperwork and oversized-luggage- refusing to sit on the racks overhead. I felt old then. I feel older now. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- help me sell this port written on: 01.20.11 the architect of the contract was a man wreaking havoc on a spindly barback who held posture and prudence as the two most important character traits. so much more than a mere mannerism. with hands chapped from polishing an endless amount of glass the boy eyeballed the top sheet the initial clause. something about a wine collector who wished to be rid of the cellar to fool the bank and wager the grapes against what could be a stint in the cooler, a night behind bars, canned, a stay in the pen, jailhouse rock, detention camp, up the river, a solitary slammer. fortune awarded him the cellar and a sports team but independence deserted with sincerity abandoned. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ink won't dry itself written on: 01.22.11 i scattered my best intentions into each letter. tested the stars and pushed their shine to elevation, pinned a few smiles to her lips and opened my eyes. morning came to life, as it lit up the pages with luster- leaking in between the shutters. they say the ink won't dry without a few little heartfelt breaths spattered from above landing like a dew on the type. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- mementos from previous readers written on: 01.28.11 a chill leaks through the keyhole, gathering up the winter months that have huddled together to bury the buildings. a group of birds cluster in the nearby trees watching frozen breaths collect in branches. all they see are filthy mouths failing to form smoke circles, and a man cutting his strides in half, standing straight in a blaze of colors, a sky blushed in hues, a prism of paints. background for the chills skirting through his face. closed fists line both pockets. five knuckles jab up against the Howard Hughes biography that was purchased three days prior. for years now he has found contentment in finding bookmarks left between crisp, frail pages. mementos from previous readers. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |