Tag Archives: summer

Regular Poem: Significant Quotations

20 Jun

Where were we
when we were here
before?

It’s one of those
repeated phrases
meaningful and meaningless
a motif
(bigger than a symbol
smaller than a theme
I used to explain
when I used to do
that sort of thing).

“But can’t
an author just write something
and it’s that something
and not something else?”
someone would inevitably say.
“Yes, but that’s not
why they pay me the big bucks,”
current me would’ve glibly retorted
if she’d been there.
I can’t recall
what I probably said then–
some diatribe
about the merit of literature
some obtuse
thing
to inspire thought
but mostly confound
and that’s why I got fired.
(That’s another motif.)

Regardless
here I am again,
here under a full moon,
a rare astronomical phenomenon,
like so many before–
blood moons and eclipses and super moons–
each coming and passing
and all promising and not satisfying,
romantic yet nothing–
“Do you always
watch for the longest day in the year
and then miss it?”

If my voice
must be full of money
why can’t I be, too?

Regular Poem: A Smell Of Fall

16 Aug

A smell of fall
weighs lightly on a cool breeze–
a whisper, a secret, a prophecy, a ghost,
and it’s a little smell,
miniature but
diligent.
The day continues–oblivious–with its humidity,
aching heat and stretching sky,
proud and stupid:
summer still, summer still
the sun says, laughing.
But the night swallows it–
a yawn and a calm.

Regular Poem: All the Bad Poems I Shouldn’t Write

7 Sep

I’ve spent
(what feels like
[what may or may not be])
the entire summer
in varying stages of wine-drunkenness and
varying stages of undress
in my hammock
contemplating

bad poems I shouldn’t write.

Poems about the slowest app on the slowest phone.
Poems about cobwebs.
Poems about bad decisions regarding cupcakes, bourbon, and bars.
Poems about having tender, bite-inciting flesh.
Poems about punching (slightly imagined) rivals straight in the titian face.
Poems about being wine drunk in a hammock.
Poems about living Ecclesiastes.
Poems about poems

and poems about nothing at all.

And I’ve written none of them.
Because I shouldn’t.
Because they’re stupid and bad.

But really I’ve written all of them.
Because here I am
a bottle of wine
and a hammock
later.

Regular Poem: In the Metallic Evening

21 Jun
In the metallic evening
when the sidewalk glimmers silver
and the clouds are a sheet of thinly stretched gold
          like the kind they use to do experiments
          with electrons
and the sun peers through that sheet of gold
shimmering peekingly as if it's shy
          but it's a ruse because the sun isn't shy
and the air is heavy with
          all the electrons from the celestial experiment
          or maybe just
humidity

and the little lead flies careen to and fro
          not sticking to anything but not 
          repelling anything either
          just bustling around like shot 
          blasted from invisible 12 gauges
and the smell from the grass and the trees and 
the hot wet air is
not organic but acrid
          not unpleasantly so just noticeably so

and your mouth is a copper kettle
         shining red and hot and tasting of metal
and your brain is mostly arsenic
         metallic yet only semi-conductive
         and almost always poisonous
and your limbs are aluminum
         soft malleable durable abundant
and your sweat is somehow not
salty but ferrous and you can smell it and taste it 
all over
mixing
in the air and seeping into 
the burnished bronze of your clothes

and everything glints blindingly in the dimmed
but phosphorescent light from
the sun that's pretending to be shy--

in the metallic evening,
everything is metallic,
especially
you.
Book 'Em, Jan O

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