playgrounds' romance

he cast himself as robin hood, the way boys do.
his blond haired friend was little john
and he insisted i be the lady marian, though
my sister preferred center of attention.

there were no bad guys in our version.
just sword fights and secret hide-aways.

the opening scene: marian, disguised.
robin hood enters. they fight.
until, so i had been told, robin discovers her.

then he told me that in the movie they kissed.

i asked him if we have to kiss.

he said yes. his blond friend and my sister watched
us follow the script; robin hood and maid marian.

we kissed again in his parent's bedroom
three weeks later.

we're closer now

across a deep purple field
of egyptian cotton
our eyes met, matched and loved

untitled love poem

circa 2000

i am so much happier now :)

acting out

in some place South by New England

brian and i sat side by side at an intangible bar
peeling labels and glue off proverbial bottles
two-layered imaging together all the bad things i could do
and taking turns at the jukebox. he played a hip hop number

in a honkytonk. that white hat is just a slight of hand.

i apologized for my mood, being a girl, he shrugged
thin shoulders and changed the subject back to dinosaurs
and library books. time lost track and hours stretched.
brian likes my poetry; i'm tired but trying to tell him
that i like his too, if he'd only write more of it.

the make believe barman took the handles off the taps.

at our revelation i left him alone with a shot
and two quarters for the only song left on the jukebox.

next time, brian, i'll wear my boots so we can dance.

blasphemed

i closed my cardigan at every button
and slumped into the sofa beside you.

my body, absorbing space, lay ingenuously
like a renaissance goddess in egg tempera.

the scent of a rising advance moved before you
and i, raged by some ill-suited mood, bit your cheek.

hotel science series (still going)

hotel science XXI

if you overture with a log
the size of the great roman empire

and follow it with an entire roll
of paper

the toilet will most certainly
become clogged.

figuring this out does not
require a scientist.

hotel science XXII

if there are 67 rooms in a hotel--
each of them occupied
(by an average of 2 adults & 2 children)--
then they will consume
approximately

14 pots of regular coffee
2 pots of decaffeinate coffee
30 cinnamon buns
38 bagels (of various flavors)
25 muffins
4 gallons of milk
an immeasurable amount of juice and cereal
(not together... usually)
18 cups of tea
and ridiculous amounts
of sugar, jelly, butter
and cream cheese packets.


we thus conclude that hotel guests,
when contained in large quantities,
possess a neurological response
to crowds which includes consumption
of an unnatural and grotesque amount
of carbohydrate and caffeine.

hotel science XXIII

two quarters, two pennies and one dime
do not equal one dollar
no matter how one arranges the coins
on a front desk counter top.

hotel science XXIV

Quarters Do Not Grow On Trees


-

*DEAD LINE*

there is now an offical cut-off date for the word verification contest.

as of march 1st *we* will no longer be accepting submissions (erm, like somehow i'm going to figure out how to turn commenting off on one post?). on march 1st i will select a group of finalists which the beloved arch will then select the winners from. (we're thinking 1st 2nd and 3rd.)

you may post your poem here or in the comments field on the original post (as linked above).

results will be announced when we have results.

library cards are magic

i got a umass alumni library card. this allows me to take any book out on loan and renue online as many times as desired (subject to recall, of course). thus;



^_^ wicked happy face!

pilot eye

experiments will ensue; flight


"something katy" has always been a transitional phrase. it has always been the bridge between PoemTree and something new, something i can't quite see yet... what i have created now is PilotEye. it has no form yet, no structure.

essentially, what happened today was, while messing about with something katy (you'll notice things that used to be green or brown are now purple) i started looking at different blog templates. i found one i fancied, but it didn't fit around something katy.

thus, pilot eye was born on a whim.

i intend for pilot eye to become home to some experimenting. something katy will remain the body of my work, and my hub. but i like the idea of stretching my virtual self out a bit more. i feel confident in po'et'ship. i feel comfortable here in something katy land (i think i might change the purple back, unless i can figure out how to change the colors of all those little dot things). now it's time to branch, to grow, to take off in a stranger direction.

the template is very girly ^_^ which is different and strange and lovely. i hope, with the template in place, that my poetry will retain a feminine quality while still being very experimental and out there.

here's hoping you like it.

h.u.d.

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for those of you unable to read binary:
copy the body of this post
click on the title of this post
enter copied text into second feild on page
click on the "decode" button
enjoy

and for those of you who don't speak geek:
h.u.d.

our purple aquarium light

it is our collective wish to be humble poets.

we are beautiful to some stranger eye.
our lips are full for speaking
the chaos of words we create--we murder pens.

this eye that hears us is biased;
it resides within the body of our collective.
in the hyperlinks highway. click and it sees you.

our purple aquarium light turns us
bright shades of blue, orange and green;
now we match our lullabies.

boys in men's' bodies are heroes and saints.
the jester is lost in the catacombs of
an aging stomach, entertaining unwelcome guests.

our hair is brown, but we call it brunette
in hopes that behind words we sound pretty
to those unknowing. our hair is really black.

we compose through convention. we ruin.
we destroy hearts with sounds and stretch marks
then expect the tank not to overflow.

and though we may never say, we love ourselves
more than we dare. i do not believe you
when you tell me you love me, because no one could

as much as me.

there is no world beyond ours,
with words we compile and retell
in new orders. in new texts, with justifications and line breaks and rhythm

_________________________________& ampersands & octothorpes.

under my purple aquarium light,
i press my face against the glass
hoping to see the big outside,
but only see the reflection
of some ugly little fish and want

to be her.




><(((*> <*)))><

vid my listo

my list of 3 fav poets and 3 fav poems has been posted on the 'ship. post me a comment there. what thinks you be of my listo?

the hotel gospel

book of water; verse 1

on the day 16 on the month 2 on the year 2 past the birth of the fish the water will come. the bells of his lord will ring and ears bleed. for thee, creatures of hoteldom, have not sacrificed sufficiently in your demolishing of the universe wherebyin our lord rules! upon the bells the antifreeze--which the lord hath paid over $4000 for and given you to save lives if flame demons hath risen upon you--will pour from the indoor skies over the place of thyn high priestess and holy rulers residing. judge them, you pedestrians of poolside bliss! judge them, you savages of free breakfast! judge them, you peddlers of pamphlets and baked goods! judge them! fore, in these hours they doth prevail. as so it has been foreseen, you must learn from them. the high priestess will be tempted and she will reject the temptations. you, reject your temptations. humility be learned on this day! the high rulers shall begot hands and knees with great heavenly sponges and liquid detergent to clean the holy walking grounds of new comers! behold! they suffer for your enjoyment, peddlers, beggars, savages and brutes! behold! they suffer for you!

upon the remaking of the world all shall learn. but let it be said that the stentch will remain for an age so thoust might never forget the day!

[you'll have to excuse me, i've not read the bible, nor any other significant religious texts. note: this gospel tells if a very true tale. the tale of which i, the high priestess, have survived.]

tanjoubi wibble

what do you get
for the fish
who has everything?

we got you a 10 gallon tank
for your first birthday.
the car was a house warming gift
when we moved one town over.
the gravel was for easter.
the light was for christmas.
now you're 2 and i don't know
what the heck to get you.
you, the fish that has everything.

is my love enough? a poem?
a water change and a new filter?

wibble, is my love enough?

[today is wibble's 2nd birthday (which we celebrate on the day he was bought and named... let's say, reborn.)]

room service

i fell asleep with my muddy sneakers on,
my feet dangling off the side of the bed.
the morning after you told me i was cute
and that i drooled on your shirt
and could i please get off your arm
because you'd lost all feeling in it 6 hours ago.

when i asked if you'd slept you didn't answer.
instead you asked me what "wakarimasen" means
because i'd said it half a dozen times in my sleep.
you asked me what i dreamt about and handed me
the room service menu, pointing to the specials.

i got dried dirt all over the bed as i rolled
off your arm and took the menu searching for pancakes.
i told you about the clipper ship inside the shopping mall
and how tom savini was spraying fake blood
on ballerinas to protect them from the pirates.

i took off my sneakers and brushed away all the dirt.
you asked me to call for breakfast.
you wanted hot cocoa with whipped cream
and a sandwich with runny egg yolk and bacon.
i ordered pancakes and orange juice and two hot cocoas.

you fell back asleep before breakfast arrived
and i stole the whipped cream from your chocolate.

domestic bliss

domestic bliss

lives in a bird house with a faded blue roof,
lies down to sleep each night in an unmade bed,
and refuses to kiss me until he's brushed his teeth.

domestic bliss is a bowl of ripe strawberries and diced peaches,
a pile of recyclable garbage that's threatening to topple over,
and the buzz the dryer makes when it thinks the clothes are dry.



the clothes are never dry when the dryer thinks they are.
the garbage never falls over, no matter how many cans you stack up.
the strawberries are good on their own and so are the peaches.

his breath never smells that bad in the morning.
the bed really never does get made, but neither of us really minds.
he doesn't live in the birdhouse, but i'm sure something does

even in winter.








title and inspiration by none other than the usual. thank you arch!

what are you valentinus?

what are you valentinus but the dirt in the road
or the boulders that pierce the surface of the green river?

was claudius your cupid? his arrow ready and waiting
for the next young couple to seek you out. unmarried,
maimed and you the martyr of a specific century.

how long have you been dead, valentinus, for some
other god to take your place in line at the bank?

am i dreaming?

click on his face.

[so much for un poema]

the contrast: wide awake at 5am, asleep at 6. alarm startles at readiness. i cracked into my boots. hair electrified, everything is silence and white. i am red. i let some cords seep through the cracked window of my car. i shovel snow; five foot deep, packed on by plows. the ache is here and here—pointing. resume track one, beck and i push neustros botas to the floor of el coche. bull riding. into the neighbors clean driveway and hauling down this back street. to the moon, staring wide-eyed like a child through naked trees and pink clouds. then the overflow. i had to drive 'round to the back entrance of the hotel. only to leave the orange pekoe tea bag in the water too long. hair is still on fire, but my boots have finally dried. so much for un poema.

[my heavy eyelids shut the light out]

my heavy eyelids shut the light out
and the weight of my mind rests on your chest.
we turn in the night for a secret warmth
hidden under the blanket your mother gave you
when you were only two years old.
i filter your words through the echo
of your heartbeat inside the cavity of my ear;
i think i hear you say it tickles. so i try
only for a bloody nose when your knee finds me
hidden inside your t-shirt. it used to be white.
the tantrum of children in adult bodies,
half naked and covered in my blood.
i'm laughing at your attempts at medicine
with a box of tissues and a cupped palm.
"pinch my nose, up here" and you pinch
too gently at first, afraid to break me.
the cushions of your finger and thumb
lull me into a cradle, my ear pressed
against your bare chest and you hold me,
my eyes shutting closed again and we sleep.



there's no title because the only thing i could think to call it was "a bloody nose" which is a terrible title.

qiiabiz

we slurped on black currant lollies all night
playing scrabble--boy 3, girl 2--
listening to badly drawn boy and making up new words
starting with q and ending in z.

he massaged my lower lip with his thumb--absently--
while we watched a pink panther movie,
cuddled on the sofa. this living room is starting to feel
just like home.




[and would you believe me, it wasn't a verification word.]

this is february

he smelled like cherry cough syrup.
when he told me let's be poets together,
i gave him my glasses; told him he could drive.
then he said let's be poets together,
just for tonight. so i took them back
and we went out for ice cream.

gentle beast (?)

beside me now rests a gentleman with matted hair,
his clean shaven jaw-line hidden under a fresh growth,
lips pierced in shallow breaths.

as he sleeps i remember him--my deviant beast--
strictly tasting his way, suspending the vortex of his serpent tongue
over the pray of his ignoble venture;

until the light from the bathroom flickers,
the clink of the bulb interrupting him from his ritual.

then, naked and panting, breathing his stench into my pillow,
his chest rising and falling like a sleeping dragon,
i curl around him, soaking up his sweat.

the whole lot's under consideration now

[[arch, sorry i spoilt the trick. also, sorry to let you know that this (in conjunction with strickly tasting and halogen) is under renovation at this very moment. i'll post the new version in a new post when it's ready.]]

i imagine him naked and panting,
breathing his stench into my pillow―loving it―
his chest rising and falling like a sleeping dragon
and i curl around him, soaking up his sweat.

my deviant beast, strictly tasting his way
until the light from the bathroom flickers;
the clink of the bulb interrupting him from this ritual.

beside me now lies a gentleman. his hair matted,
his beard showing through, his breath shallow,
his chest still sticky with sweat.


[title suggestions; boys, i need your help here]

halogen

wrapped in a midday shroud,
the blinds are drawn but the sun persists
in it's dutiful light. it penetrates your cloud of impurity.

reading leonard cohen aloud to yourself
wishing you were his f. or his edith
then sulking, waiting for some hallelujah
to ring your doorbell. if you had one.

imagine your favorite beast curled into a ball
breathing his stench into your pillow
and loving it. cry.

the giver

he wouldn't kiss me because i smelled like apple
so i took him from behind
bearing my teeth to his neck and shoulder
i pulled and stretched the collar of his shirt
then reaching, i stuck my finger in his belly-button
and waited.

strictly tasting

we defied everyone, at least once;
splitting grapefruit with samurai swords
and yelling like children on table tops.

i was in italy when i had my first real drink.
i told you about it in the same email
that i sent my father, denouncing tequila for life.

we wanted to be real native americans
so we ate beef jerky, drove around in an old pick-up
and wore coats with sheep-like wool lining.

strictly tasting, i imagine him naked and panting,
his chest rising and falling like a sleeping dragon
and i curl around him, soaking up his sweat.

implications

dennis: katy, do you smoke?
katy: no. i don't do anything bad.
dennis: bullshit, you got married young.


------------
i was rummaging through my poetry folders on my pc and ran into this; this is a very real coversation with a boy who looks very much like jesus.

SamBakZa

my girlish geekdom is manifested in a bunny and a cat. korean and absolutely adorable. the music is fantastic as well. enjoy ^_^

something about mike topp

in red boldface



he left a comment: here

welcome to the playground mr topp!

-p-o-d-g-e-

number one: an excuse

i wanted to know what it would feel like to walk through the swamp
behind the lodge wearing my lo-tops and ryan's socks.

then i thought about my car--new--tan interior--no rubber floor mats.

i didn't.

number two: a true story

a russian man, tall blonde,

matvey

he liked to be called bruno

says: "girl you drink"

when he's sober he calls me "katy"

when i say no he says: "why not?"

and "are you drunk?"

but when he's sober he doesn't sing.

number three: confession

i can't get "leave the peaches out" into a poem.

i can't tell if it's really him.

number four: lost and found

one, two all the way up to ten—
naked toes on a cold cloud of sand
left by wind & travelers on the asphalt.

number five: podge

he poked my side, said to listen.
i watched him instead, lip-sinking the words
to an automatic* song.

number six: define it yourself

this is a mixed bag of goodies;
just like your religion.






*automatic are/were(?) a band who's bassist, rob, is good mates with ryan.

you thought as though

you thought as though
you really loved. that once.
you thought as though
this wasn't what you needed.
you thought as if. then something happened.
the line ran out. it slipped past your lips
and onto hers. you thought.
you thought as though
she might have been. this is real.
you thought as though
you might cry for it. pain for it.
you thought as though
you really wanted. you really wanted her.
back. but you never let her.
you thought as though
she might figure it out. on her own.
you thought as though
the night would happen
on its own. without you. you thought.
where would you be
when it did? as though you thought.





--------------------

thank you. a. for you know. sorry, too. even more.

wessex poems

wouldn't it figure that the book i have a love affair with (the only one i ever thought about steeling from the library at umass) happens to be stupidly old and sought after... $1000!?

*sad face*

http://pages.ripco.net/~mws/collect/firsts.html

i would have stollen it too, if it didn't mean letting the library withhold my degree!

oh thomas!! why!?



[add on]

i'm not just in love with the book for it's physical nature, but also for the content. even so, it makes me a little sad that you can get this entire text online. on the other hand, it's not like mr hardy'll be making profit on book sales. (right like, even if he were he'd only have to sell a handfull at a $1000 a pop!)

anyway, here it is... wessex poems

angels do

the breach of something unspoken
and lain upon a pivot fixed with rust
is euphonized by her sighing.
his bare back against the cool
of an unmade bed is wrought
with a tantrum of shivers. she sighs again.
fallen from some higher moral ground
they both lie like angels in a pool
of sin and feathers and sweat and wait
for the right moment to breach another.

pro-button-tivity

because my brain does not function at full capacity every day, i decided that today i would make some buttons. here's the one i can't use because it would be stupid to link to myself...

here's the one i made for the dodgy robots...



[enriko says he likes it, but he also said that i can do whatever i want with whatever.]

here is the one i made for brian's boarding house...



[and enriko tells me, brian, that you don't like this picture, but i think it works really well in 200x40 pixels (not much does).]

[enter: edit:]
okay, brian, you don't like that picture... how about either of these?

or

[: edit: exit]

i also made a new button for jubilat because the new edition has been released...



and last but most certainly not least...



...because i'm on a roll today, and the previous poetship button was lame. the image is part of one of arch's sketches from ashrafo.net