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Showing posts with label poem 15. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem 15. Show all posts
Friday, January 23, 2015
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
the day
The two borscht day
when the bus arrives just as you decide to take it and it stops in front of
the first of two of the three best remaining restaurants
of the territory of your ancestors
the friends you've been waiting for years to find,
just the right clever things, the second bowl
the boys game, your elbows on the table
the table's a load of shit.
careful- a high on your power day: don't speak to fast.
landing smoothly backwards through the crowds next to the boy you like with his friend.
the buzz under your elbow on the table, the glow of the day, the smiley face,
desire transferred sideways
: )
!
The glow of the generations you know and the ones you're recalling
the glow of cheeks in the cold,
what is being said, really? when
everything-for a time- lines up just right.
when the bus arrives just as you decide to take it and it stops in front of
the first of two of the three best remaining restaurants
of the territory of your ancestors
the friends you've been waiting for years to find,
just the right clever things, the second bowl
the boys game, your elbows on the table
the table's a load of shit.
careful- a high on your power day: don't speak to fast.
landing smoothly backwards through the crowds next to the boy you like with his friend.
the buzz under your elbow on the table, the glow of the day, the smiley face,
desire transferred sideways
: )
!
The glow of the generations you know and the ones you're recalling
the glow of cheeks in the cold,
what is being said, really? when
everything-for a time- lines up just right.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Crisps
No hands no, no, away from the bag,
no grease to grease.
No wish to be left alone,
but in wishing so,
no desire to accept other hands,
smothering my food,
breeding with the leavings
of other hands on it.
Away from my food.
No.
Don't touch,
don't taste.
I'm here,
but don't taste.
no grease to grease.
No wish to be left alone,
but in wishing so,
no desire to accept other hands,
smothering my food,
breeding with the leavings
of other hands on it.
Away from my food.
No.
Don't touch,
don't taste.
I'm here,
but don't taste.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
THE SUN KISSED
the gold field, your teal
t-shirt
evenly
I made your birthday card
in the wind
boys walked by and argued
rolled Rs, harsh Us
something about
Abbey Road, Abbey Road
new couples kissed new
kisses
the sun kissed the sky
and set
pale nectarine
A letter
A letter
written in my lemon water says:
you can raise a baby in a studio apartment
build a translucent nomadic cube
as the baby's own little room.
You know all that you need to know
and you are ready.
Waiting is hard,
with signs like these.
written in my lemon water says:
you can raise a baby in a studio apartment
build a translucent nomadic cube
as the baby's own little room.
You know all that you need to know
and you are ready.
Waiting is hard,
with signs like these.
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