Tuesday, November 29, 2005

morning child II

sitting on your living room sofa,
she's drinking the orange juice
that your mother gave her.
innocence radiates from her skin
but you can't help yourself
imagining her naked and wanting.
she makes space for you
and pets your fierce morning stubble
moving her fingers across your jaw.
"good morning you two,"
an over zealous mother's call
"breakfast will be ready in five!"
enough time for you to swim
through her dreams as she retells
her frivolous midnight adventures.


my life is not a poetic one
aside from the fact
that i made scrambled eggs for breakfast
and ate alone;
my husband already out the door.
the kitchen is a disaster,
i pushed plates to make room
to crack the eggs and beat them;
had to clear the stove of old pans
and pots
with pasta sauce stuck to the sides
before i could heat a pan enough
to introduce the eggs.
it'll probably be days
before we wash the dishes.

i don't know where this one ends

or even where it begins for that matter... but here's what i've got so far. not sure if it's really worth revising, not sure if it's really worth showing, but maybe the publicity will encourage to morph on its own.

He thought it was smart to drink coffee in new york
That’s why he did it, and he thought she liked him.
He’d ask her for it in code, because he thought she knew
All the names of all the different kinds of foam.

A quick trick of light and the scent of hazelnut
Tipped her off to the stains on his shirt.
The collar met his hair where his hear was too long
And she did what she could to avoid staring.

When he finally met with the coffee counter
He’d forgotten exactly what it was
That he was after in the first place
Until he saw the girl he thought liked him

So he slouched like, he thought, a lion would

[and an everlasting ...]

Tuesday, November 22, 2005


struggle this fantasy forward
bringing boys out of works,
out of home, out of love and
out of something spectacular
to use them like dolls on a platform
designed through improvability,
provincial stitching and strategies
languished in disguise like girls.

she licks ice cream from a spoon
reminding you of cats and tails and
other things you're use to.
you wish her closer and stop
one foot in the air in a dance
until metaphors become you;
until you persuade her green
and her eyes to follow the steps.

Monday, November 21, 2005


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Thursday, November 17, 2005

tower and gentleman

here is a symbol in which
many wistful helpless wishes
howl past themselves.

this watch tower, well loved
by the righteous few, where the dedicated
let no brick crumble

pillar supported, and signatured
by wire frames: at its center
a beam of light has punctured.

i think her is your motto
to write in golden leaf;
not the stone, not the glue

but this; this light resonance; this deep patience;
this thick neglect joined with
a gracious ignorance.

life with calm death; the gentleman’s
strict hat and walk
divorced from the construction

and the candor of time,
which decay cannot withhold
nor preservation make holy.

Robinson Jeffers'
Rock and Hawk

Here is a symbol in which
Many high tragic thoughts
Watch their own eyes.

This grey rock, standing tall
On the headland, where the seawind
Lets no tree grow,

Earthquake-proved, and signatured
By ages of storms: on its peak
A falcon has perched.

I think, here is your emblem
To hang in the future sky;
Not the cross, not the hive,

But this; bright power, dark peace;
Fierce consciousness joined with final

Life with calm death; the falcon’s
Realist eyes and act
Married to the massive

Mysticism of stone,
Which failure cannot cast down
Nor success make proud.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

experiment 4

Joy to hear his hero spoken of this way,
Of trachytic rock that is separate from the mountainous system,
Used in a tone of genuine pity.
Rays of sunlight awakened us—
Nature has proceeded geometrically and worked in the human manner:
Examined and analyzed the problem,

Three days:
Our starting point—the two peaks—couldn’t be seen

The unpleasant fact was that we could have little hope of finding a spring

Correspond to these Icelandic characters—
Never before seen—such a basalt structure as this.
Through the next day we walked beneath the endless series of arches,
Even looking up,
Rubbing his hands together

Only a huge skullcap of snow; no

Tendency must not have reassured the professor

Eventually produce the sentence:
A Sunday,
Rumbling carts,
Transitional character became more clearly marked;
His pockets and his traveling bag.

poetry waves

for me--and hopefully i'm not the only one--poetry comes in waves. lately it would seem my robotic muses only make monthly visits. even then, it isn't until i call upon them by resigning myself to sit and write. perhaps they hear the arrangment of key and mouse clicks it takes to open word on my computer or they know the sound my note book binding makes as it's opening. they're not here now even though i'm calling them. hopefully they don't think i'm writing well without them. Hello, Muses! This isn't poetry, you can still come for a visit! The tea is on!

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Saturday, November 05, 2005

morning child

the pull down at the corner of a bed sheet
hidden behind baby blue and a glass reflection
of your morning beard to the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in your good eye.

last night turned to unfairly complicated
her moves across your childhood carpet
and the distinct smell of picture books
turned her into a muse of pleasurable guilt.

the trim of an unpainted heaven reveals her
as a wicked truth amongst comforting lies
and a break from exposure to ritual brushings
leaving way for a finer comb to clean with.


if only every poem came as naturally as this -katy

Thursday, November 03, 2005

robots don't make good valentines

robot: would you be my, what is it called? would you be my...

girl: valentine?

robot: like chocolate, yes, but...

girl: you have to promise not to eat me.

robot: pudding.

girl: pudding?

robot: yes, pudding, my chocolate pudding valentine. i have heart for you.

girl: how romantic. do you mean to say you love me?

robot: i cannot.

girl: even more romantic.

robot: pudding please, i cannont say such a thing. we have only known each other for 84, 230 minutes.

girl: your counting?

robot: this relationship is getting too hot, perhaps we should call it quits.

girl: it's getting too what?

robot: i think we should start seeing other people.

girl: erm, okay.

robot: will you still be my pudding?

girl: ...

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

i heart lynne truss

two thousand and thirty long
the life span of a semicolon
founded in a fancy dress
the debutaunt twirls her hair
to the end of a sentance.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005


one day late, right?

one trick o' treater last night, a very polite little pumpkin boy with a hankering for lollies. one jack o'lantern with a bat visage. one creepy lovecraft story and one poem:

the pumpkin princess

Pick a pumpkin from the patch little girl
Your pig-tale braids and pink-framed spectacles
Accent the awkward freckle on your button nose
Choose a round one, a big one, a pumpkin that you can’t carry
But try to anyway, get wet dirt on your snow-blue coat
Hold it on your lap for the whole ride home
In your head, name this pumpkin something sweet
Like Christian, Sebastian or Saint Orange of Pumpkin Land
Then protest violently when your dad offers to cut off his head
You can see his face already; you don’t need to carve it in
Watch him carefully to learn if he moves
Be especially aware during the night time
Sneak out of your bed and out of the house, to see him sit on the porch
He is like an angel in the moonlight
You know he’s someone important, a King or a Magician
If only you knew how to make him into a person instead of a pumpkin
So that you could become his fairytale princess

and lots of cup cakes...