Regular Poem: Poem Swap

2 Nov

Sometimes–as a thought exercise–
I imagine what
a poem he might write about me
might look like,
sound like,
feel like.

(He writes poetry, too,
but I’m not sure how many
whiskeys and old country songs
have to be involved
in the process.)

How might I appear
as a protagonist–
or perhaps
in his penmanship,
scrawled on a half sheet
of legal pad
whose top half contains a checklist
of medications he’s taken already

“Your memory is short,
and your feelings are shallow.
A house is more than a house,
even if left for seasons fallow.”

(His poetry often rhymes.)

Would he write
about me
or about himself
through me?

Would I be
as I am
or as I should be?

Would it be so
laced through with
strings of metaphors
so dense
that no one would see me?

It’s a silly thought exercise.
I could just ask him.

But then that would
become a different
type of thought exercise–
an interrogation,
a call-and-response song,
a riddle
wrapped in inefficiency.

That would be his thought exercise,
not mine.

Regular Poem: Several Times Bitten

28 Oct

once bitten twice shy
twice bitten thrice shy?
Or should it follow that
twice bitten four times shy?
(I was always pretty good
at the math section of SATs and ACTs
but there are simply not enough
terms to find the pattern to find the nth term,
you know?)

in my experience,
the premise rings a little

People say the’ll try anything once
and then end up trying it twice
just to be sure
the first time wasn’t a fluke.

And if it hurts,
maybe they like the hurt
a little

So maybe the inverse is true.
Twice bitten once shy.

And if we’re talking literal bites
yeah, I don’t wanna get bit,
but now that I have, I know what to expect.

And sometimes you just have to
take the bite.

Especially if somebody else is about to get bit.
You gotta throw your arm in
and let yourself
get bit instead.

Regular Poem: Just Like the Old Days

25 Oct

I knew
several days ago
when he called me
that I would be writing
this poem
or some poem
very similar to it.

And here we are
smoking cigarettes
and drinking beer
and telling stories.

His stories are
cop stories,
stories of
one of these things is not like the other,

stories of
and crazies
and low-income housing.

And I am a sponge
but an inefficient and drunk one
absorbing and not absorbing,
everything slopping out of me
because the sponge is
saturated already.

And at the end I’m
driving home
giggling uncontrollably
at my life
and the way it’s turned out.

He saved
all my old report cards.
and they all
tell a story of their own.

He saved
all my old IEPs
and they
tell a story of their own.

He also saved
my mother’s glamour shots
from JC Penney
and they tell
a story, too.

And here I am,
still giggling.

And when two weeks later
I look at my garage–
you know my granny garage,
teeming with granny garbage,
trinkets and tools and trash–
and there is somehow
and the yawning mouth of it
opens at me,
yowling at me that it is not yet
and it could use
a 30-year old chest of drawers
and a few more boxes of junk,

I will laugh and tell it no,
tell it I will be excising
those tumors.

And it will laugh back
and tell me
I’ve never excised anything ever,
and why would I start now?

And I will laugh again
but only because
I won’t be woman enough to cry.

Found Poem: When some one searches

13 Sep

We can always count on Spambot to tell us something mysterious yet generic.

When some one searches
for his necessary thing,

he/she wants to be

that in detail,
therefore that thing is
over here.

Regular Poem: Garages

9 Aug

I have peeked
into your garage
as I drive down our shared street.
I have slowed down
and craned my neck.
I have moseyed into your yard sale
just to survey your digs.

I bet
you have three shop vacs
just like me.
I bet you have
ancient coffee pots
and antique jack stands
and twenty different
half inch box wrenches.

It’s as though
when they built these houses–
that are not even a subunit or a suburb,
not even governed by an HOA–
they cut them all from the same
granny cloth.

And we all
the same items and the same
and we are all the same
but living in different bodies
with different jobs
and storing all our same granny stuff
in the same garage–
a version of the same garage,
spreading out

Found Poem: Payday Loans (VIII)

25 Jul

The imagery in this one seems to be at least partially inspired by Revelation.  Perhaps this marks the Second Coming of Payday Loans.  Although I might be more interested in Payday Loans being cast into a lake of fire…

The bridegroom, who during this recital had grown
deadly pale, up andtried
to escape,
but the guests
seized him and held
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tell himwhat had happened.
My friends endeavoured to console me
by the news
that lions had nowbeen heard of
in two other places, and that
we should be sure to findone
in the morning and next day,
after we had
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Thenative sheep
is a hairy animal,
looking to the unpractised eye
morelike a goat than a sheep.

I will think aboutthat,

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in shaping the future of theircountry?
Everywhere great pathways are
instant payday loans instant payday loans instant payday loans

is that my fault?

We got out of the booth and joined
insant payday loans instant payday loans
instant payday loans

However, he kept fast hold,
and led her in and
thecover of
payday loans payday loans instant payday loans

to everything he wears, thinks, says, believes,
and to theway he carries on every activity of his life.
As the sold congregation trooped out
they said they would almost bewilling to
instant payday loans instant payday loan instant payday loans

till it grew dark.

Regular Poem: Conspiracy

17 Jun

It just kind of
feels like a
you know?

Like way back
in the BFE of my brain
there’s this
little B&B,
and there’s this
little part of me
that’s the lodger
about to go mad
waiting for the shoe in the
room above her to drop,

and then it will be confirmed
that I am,
in actuality,
an ugly girl–
like that d-bag
in 7th grade

I realized recently
I haven’t been denigrated
for my looks
since then.

I’ve been called a lot of stuff
since then–
true stuff, untrue stuff,
subjective stuff–
expletives and superlatives–
just stuff,
like everybody, I’m sure.

I went through a long
frumpy stage.
I got called ugly only that one time, though.

the whole situation–
the whole ugly situation–
amazes me
for several reasons:

Number one:  I sometimes become
by people’s looks.  Like
I have a mental grappling hook
I keep handy so I can pull myself out
before society deems me unfit
on account of staring.

I just
like to look
at people and admire freckles and
gaze at bizarre tattoos and
analyze facial hair and
get lost in someone’s teeth.

But I’m not sure
I’ve ever really thought
someone was ugly before
I knew that person’s personality.
It confuses me
when people don’t see people
as people with stories and souls
but as some kind of livestock
either to be given a ribbon or
to be disqualified at the county fair.

Number two: Isn’t beauty subjective
Someone thinks Honey Boo Boo’s mom
is gorgeous
I don’t have a problem looking at her.
She’s just a weird lady to me.
But some people are actually
by her.
But she has a boyfriend.
And I’ve read that she’s actually
very kind and compassionate.
I mean,
there are statistics about
facial symmetry
or whatever.
But I just have never been

by someone.
There was a guy
who always used to come in to the gym
who had all these burn scars–
like no hair and stuff,
and I wanted to stare
at his veins peaking under the surface of his taut skin
and his shapely muscles
and his interesting head shape,
but I knew it would be rude
because he’d think I was staring
because I was grossed out or something,
but I wasn’t.
I wanted to look at him
because I wanted to look at him–
the same reason I want to look at
the Evil Queen.
I just want to look at her.
Sue me.

Number 3:  You always hear
about people being branded,
typcast in their own lives.
They either internalize
the thing,
or everyone sees them as
the thing,
and they are
the thing

As far as I recall, it was
just that one incident.
I think that’s why it stuck with me.
So are there
secretly hoards of folks
waiting to drop that other shoe
only they haven’t because of
or more likely
other things I’ve been called
have deterred them–
things that are much truer
(because as I’ve discussed,
I don’t actually think ugly exists–
not in the terms people use it usually,
Am I actually supposed to be
living the life of an “ugly girl”?
And what does that life look like?
I know only what I watch in movies,
so I guess
it means I’ll be alone
eating pizza and reading?
Ye gads!

I’ve been doing that all along!
But people keep
telling me I’m
pretty, and
even if they didn’t,
I like doing that,
and I 100 percent would not stop
just so some dreamboat could tell me
to take off my glasses
and fluff my hair
so he could take me to prom to
win a bet
or whatever.

Number 4: What’s even the point
of calling someone ugly?
Like, calling someone fat, I guess
you could expect the person to diet
or something?  I mean, if
you’re a body-policing asshole, I guess.
That’s about 75 percent as ludicrous
as calling someone ugly
(but 100 percent as mean).
Because what’s a person supposed to do
about being ugly, exactly?
Just put on some make up or something?
Get plastic surgery?
What’s a person supposed to do
about being fat?
It’s like when your boss
tells you you’re bad at your job,
but then doesn’t tell you any way to be
at your job,
and you just have to
stand there and take it
because the explanation of
you’re bad at your job
doesn’t make any sense.
But at least
it’s your boss’s job
to critique your job.
But why is it any of your
d-bag business whether a person is
ugly or fat?
Surely it’s
not offending you to just
a person
who doesn’t look how you want
that person to look?

Sure, I’ve insulted people
to feel better about myself.
I’ll try anything
But it made me feel worse.
I’d sooner try pot again,
and if you know anything about me,
you know I hate cottonmouth and paranoia–
but not as much as I hate
guilt and shame and dishonor.

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