Pocket full of poesies

Beautiful things

2008-08-28T15:43:00.000-07:00

It's been a while
Since I made a beautiful thing.
And while
I'd like to think
that sinewy cocoon,
lodged somewhere deep in the shadowy, mysterious part
protected by a cage of bones,
holds within all sorts of gorgeousness--
bubbling, concentrating, mitosis-ing until it is fully formed--
part of me fears
that because I have refrained
from summoning the butterfly--with wings composed of half-hummed tunes, dabs of acrylic,
and 10 second visions in technicolor--
when I finally split open the dried out capsule,
I will realize it is nothing but an organic coffin;
the home of a fragmentary, crackly corpse
that never made it to the afterlife.

Ode to Resident Saliva

2007-01-30T00:31:00.000-08:00

(Apologies to the squeamish)

My roommate tells me
That kisses last for four years--
The saliva that is.
The germs move in like unwanted guests,
Staying longer than you thought (and hoped) they would.

And we talk about our residents,
Giggling as we compare the odd combinations
While still slightly grossed out.
We gossip about them and compare them to their neighbors;
We discuss the ones we prefer to the others,
The ones we wish would leave,
And the recluse ones we nearly forgot were there.

And whether it's true or simply
College urban-legend--
The kind of thing you hear in the dorm setting--
A sort of "he-said-she-said"
That you don't want to believe is true,
But convince yourself must be true because you so want
It not to be true--
With kisses or sometimes a touch or a look,
It really does take that long
(Or what seems a second short of forever)
To get those people
(Germs and all)
Out of your system.

Daydreamer

2007-01-22T16:55:00.002-08:00

I didn’t mean to
Think it all day.
Hidden in the foliage of my mind,
Avoiding confrontation
Was it.

Abominable, inappropriate,
Omnipotent, big-footed,
In the rugged terrain of my brain.

Impossible to control,
Run free you machinations and
Insane incantations.
Run free you hand-stitched situations
I told myself to dispose of two days ago,
Along with the old milk carton.

But I did not
And so these thoughts
Have continued to wreak havoc,
And break the rules—
These Technicolor sparks
In black and white reel.

Small Bed

2007-01-22T16:55:00.001-08:00

The clouds parted and Zeus appeared—
Thunderbolt tucked behind his ear—
Ready to throw a spark at your tail.
But I waited,
And you did not
Move.

Was I born to wait like this?
For the dahlias to grow;
For life to sprout from of little nothings whispered in a poor girl’s ear?
Come on.
I’m waiting—
The gods are waiting for you
To move.

My lonely road was not made for two,
Yet I made room—
Cleared a path, tearing up brambles with my bare hands.
But you’re not moving.
You never move.

Okay then.
Too stubborn?
Well I’m too tired.
I’m climbing in,
Though I run the risk of no warmth
And falling off.

My legs are strained and rubbery;
Your callousness is killing me
And these calluses are killing me.
I can tread no longer
And Hermes took my winged shoes
So move over.

Cooks Chop Onions

2007-01-22T16:49:00.001-08:00

Cooks chop onions. They peal off the skins first—make a swift cut through the first layer and then unravel. Their eyes are accustomed to the acrimonious scent that lingers in the air. Cooks chop onions. They get those big knives and in a tat-tat-tat chop up white orbs into slivers for stews and omelettes. Cooks chop onions and think about other things, like childhood or paying the rent or having left the backdoor unlocked. Cooks chop onions and don’t cut their fingers. Onion juice gathers on the scuffed surfaces of plastic cutting boards; it drips off the edges down to the floor where there are puddles of hamburger grease and trampled food droppings lie. Cooks chop onions and get lost in the rhythm. Tat-tat-tat. Cooks chop onions and forget that they were meant to do other things. Tat-tat-tat. Cooks chop onions and forget that life is about more than cutting these bodies into little pieces.

Cold

2007-01-22T16:40:00.000-08:00

It's cold these days,
But today is not as cold as yesterday
Or the day before.

So I snuggle up in bed
With a sleeping bag
Under my comforter
And am ready to hibernate for a while.

I am not sure whether the cold or the seemingly attenuating nature
Of my possibilites
is making me feel this way.

It is probably the cold.

Spilled Glass

2007-01-22T08:47:00.000-08:00

Is not like
spilled milk
or
spilled wine.

She is scared to enter the kitchen,
kind of like the time
she was too afraid
to look in the mirror
lest she she
the woman she had become
on accident.

These predetermined accidents sometimes feel
like they are all that I know.