Regular Poem: I Can Feel It

25 Apr

I can feel it

(Is this
how a werewolf feels
as the full moon draws near–
hears its bones creak in a new rhythm,
smells its pheremones change,
notices its senses heightening
and its hunger increasing,
itches in its nature,
chafes at the cacophony inside?)

I can feel it
with each glimmering day
and each gooey night.

My skin is changing. Soon
I’ll be red, and I will smell
like sunshine–
equal parts butter and fresh grass and a
sweet salty sweat,
a dash of copper,
half a honeysuckle blossom,
burnt brown sugar.

It flew south for the winter–
vacationed on another girl for a while maybe–
but it’s back–
or it’s coming,
and I can hear the train it’s riding in on, chugging
down the line fast and hard and steady.

I can feel it
starting and stopping
on a chilly night,
the train pausing at a crossing,
rolling back for a checkpoint.

But I can feel it

Regular Poem: A Little Bit

25 Apr

There’s the person who’s a little bit country
and the one who’s a little bit rock and roll,
but what about someone who’s
a little bit bebop–
someone whose voice careens,
amelodic and bouncing,
over a quick bass line,
jumping from chord to chord,
between chords and out of chords?

What about someone
who’s a little bit turn-of-the-century march–
seducing you with their fanfare,
staid yet nimble,
soft and then loud and then
going out with an obligato that lingers?

There’s a lot of someones
with a lot of little bits.

Regular Poem: Daydream

24 Apr

It’s a ho-hum humdrum daydream–
no glamor or excitement
no love or enticement–
just an outfit,
the way it’s put together,
culled from pieces,
woven and unwoven again,
yielding itself to vagaries, whims, caprices.

But it’s not just the outfit,
it’s getting into the outfit,
the bit before the outfit,
the primping, yes,
but also the search
through drawers and dressers and closets and piles–
flipping through mental files–
muscle memory, sense memory, memory memory, false memory, wished-for memory–
a clumsy catalogue
of everything and more
and less.

And the reactions
and repercussions
and opportunities
and possibilities.

Regular Poem: Work Lullaby

22 Apr

I’m nothing like
your mother,
but for four hours of my day
I will be.

I’ll hold
your hand while you cry
and feed you
and bathe you
and comb your hair
and wait by your bedside until you fall asleep.

I will care for you,
and you might care
about my caring,
and you might care
that I’m a kind face,
and you might not.

I will go home,
and you will dream
in your wailing way
of your mother
or perhaps an object
or feverish images and haunting sounds,

and we will meet again
and pretend again
another day.

Regular Poem: Hair

22 Apr

I haven’t
smelled someone else’s hair
in ages–
really nuzzled in
and grazed a scalp with my fingernails,
been tented
in someone’s canopy,
isolated the components
of a person’s hair smell.

And so
I sometimes wonder
if other hair
the way mine does:
smells like the whole day,
every person I’ve touched,
every sweat I’ve sweated,
every convertible ride I’ve taken,
every perfume I’ve brushed against.

How does one ask
that sort of question?

Regular Poem: Phoning It In

21 Apr

I’m calling to say
I’m phoning it in.

No, I’m not phoning
to say I’m
calling in.
I’m just informing you
by phone
I’ll be phoning it in tonight.

I thought you had the right
to know

No, I haven’t decided what percentage
of me
you can count on
quite yet;
I just know that
it won’t be 100–
probably somewhere between
50 and 80.

No, of course I don’t want you
to apply vacation or sick leave.
I’m not vacationing,
nor am I sick.
I’m just

phoning it in.

Everyone else is, too?
I guess
it’ll be a

conference call.

Regular Poem: It wasn’t a good day

19 Apr

It wasn’t a good day
to wake up angry.

There were turkeys
in the ditch,
doing silly turkey things together
with their big rear feathers
pointed toward the highway,
mooning everyone driving north,

and the sun
was smiling coyly
through the lace of clouds
that made the veil on its Sunday hat.

There were things to do
and people to see
and songs to hear
and rain to smell

and nothing to be angry about.

Maybe it was a good day
to wake up angry.

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