counting the days:
when i was younger than my oldest days,
i would trace my toes
in your gravel, dirt path
and count the tire tracks
that the wind had etched.
and when i was the oldest i had ever been,
i would blink at the hum of the stars
and pretend i owned your dog
because you loved her
and the way her tail never tired.
and when i couldn't get any younger,
i would secretly misplace my shoes
and hug your little brother
until i forgot what date
my birthday was supposed to be.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
if you'd rather be a window, i'd gladly be the frame.....
these are some older pieces i found. as always feel free to tell me what you think...
1. riding the conrail twitty:
a hindu-clothed jamaican jew
stuck on the floor of a cat's cradle.
sorry for loving grandmothers
and taking the face of mine.
sorry for confusing dance with compulsions
and tying genres together on my cassettes.
a ballerina, night driving, pseudo-hippie
stroking your strands of outdoorsy adventure
and not sorry at all. for now.
2. (untitled)
everything is waiting-
the maples clutch to their brown leaves,
refusing to shutter in the wind.
the birds nod on the shingles above my room.
they will not spread their feathers
today, probably not tomorrow either.
they are waiting.
there is something hidden
behind the peach sunsets
and the scent lingering in the air
of plowed fields and shooting stars.
i don't know why they wait
and i can't say why i won't.
maybe in my way, i'm waiting too.
for the leaves to turn green
and the flocks to return
and for the warmth to burn
away the remnants of this.
1. riding the conrail twitty:
a hindu-clothed jamaican jew
stuck on the floor of a cat's cradle.
sorry for loving grandmothers
and taking the face of mine.
sorry for confusing dance with compulsions
and tying genres together on my cassettes.
a ballerina, night driving, pseudo-hippie
stroking your strands of outdoorsy adventure
and not sorry at all. for now.
2. (untitled)
everything is waiting-
the maples clutch to their brown leaves,
refusing to shutter in the wind.
the birds nod on the shingles above my room.
they will not spread their feathers
today, probably not tomorrow either.
they are waiting.
there is something hidden
behind the peach sunsets
and the scent lingering in the air
of plowed fields and shooting stars.
i don't know why they wait
and i can't say why i won't.
maybe in my way, i'm waiting too.
for the leaves to turn green
and the flocks to return
and for the warmth to burn
away the remnants of this.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
if you're looking for a blanket, sweetie, i'm sorry i'm no sort of fabric. but if you need a tailor- take your torn shirt and stumble up my stairs...
so this piece is not one of my favorites...but a lot of people seemed to like it....let me know what you think
bloodshot eyes-
(you're pink around the rims again
claiming you know
the difference between a smile and a breakdown,
a tree and a phone pole,
my leg and yours)
i could count the times you've stumbled in
if you'd stop singing "sweet chariot" to me.
shaking limbs-
(your friends with asterisks
will all self-destruct in time)
they know what you have to offer
on saturday night, and monday and wednesday
and thursday for that matter.
they see you for all those qualities
that morph you into one of your hated cliches.
swirling stomach-
(this world has maimed you)
the man you can be without your crutch
doesn't cough and feel steps give way.
he laughs and cries and dreams.
i'd take your poison and drain your blood
until it trickled back into your cheeks
if i thought it's actually matter.
until then, raise your glass, make a toast,
and wake up holding your head.
bloodshot eyes-
(you're pink around the rims again
claiming you know
the difference between a smile and a breakdown,
a tree and a phone pole,
my leg and yours)
i could count the times you've stumbled in
if you'd stop singing "sweet chariot" to me.
shaking limbs-
(your friends with asterisks
will all self-destruct in time)
they know what you have to offer
on saturday night, and monday and wednesday
and thursday for that matter.
they see you for all those qualities
that morph you into one of your hated cliches.
swirling stomach-
(this world has maimed you)
the man you can be without your crutch
doesn't cough and feel steps give way.
he laughs and cries and dreams.
i'd take your poison and drain your blood
until it trickled back into your cheeks
if i thought it's actually matter.
until then, raise your glass, make a toast,
and wake up holding your head.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
he's like a less cute version of you...he's like a walmart version of you...but he'll have to do...
never again.
i won't allow your pelvic thrusts
and the bottle you keep beside your bed
convince me otherwise.
i saw it
as you sat indian style
in your tub of warm water,
the shower spitting raindrops
on the arctic creatures of your boxers.
i was sitting on the ledge-
like a mother, letting you pretend
my black painted fingernails were your sailboat.
and when you turned your back to me,
i stroked your soaked curls
and let my eyes trace
drops down the curve of your spine.
and when you nodded off
between sips of your waterlogged beer,
i wrapped my trembling hand
around your right foot and pretended
i was waking you up
from all your bad dreams.
i even prayed
that i could make the confusion
and pain and isolation
wash down the drain.
and when you awoke,
those brown eyes staring back,
i swear i saw a younger you inside-
before all the pills and doctor appointments.
i wrapped the towel around your unsteady body
and wished i could hug you-cure you.
and as i coaxed you to bed,
my first love, my most kindred spirit-
i wished you were mine,
that i could lay in your sheets, be your savior,
but i remembered all the dares
and sloppy kisses and fingertips
when we pretended to be so much older.
but never again.
the curse words and lighters and politics
couldn't fool me.
and as i tucked you in
i found i was the one dreaming
that adulthood could be found somewhere
in the scattered memories of our lives
and wishing this wouldn't be
the last time.
i won't allow your pelvic thrusts
and the bottle you keep beside your bed
convince me otherwise.
i saw it
as you sat indian style
in your tub of warm water,
the shower spitting raindrops
on the arctic creatures of your boxers.
i was sitting on the ledge-
like a mother, letting you pretend
my black painted fingernails were your sailboat.
and when you turned your back to me,
i stroked your soaked curls
and let my eyes trace
drops down the curve of your spine.
and when you nodded off
between sips of your waterlogged beer,
i wrapped my trembling hand
around your right foot and pretended
i was waking you up
from all your bad dreams.
i even prayed
that i could make the confusion
and pain and isolation
wash down the drain.
and when you awoke,
those brown eyes staring back,
i swear i saw a younger you inside-
before all the pills and doctor appointments.
i wrapped the towel around your unsteady body
and wished i could hug you-cure you.
and as i coaxed you to bed,
my first love, my most kindred spirit-
i wished you were mine,
that i could lay in your sheets, be your savior,
but i remembered all the dares
and sloppy kisses and fingertips
when we pretended to be so much older.
but never again.
the curse words and lighters and politics
couldn't fool me.
and as i tucked you in
i found i was the one dreaming
that adulthood could be found somewhere
in the scattered memories of our lives
and wishing this wouldn't be
the last time.
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