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

nice to meet you

with your back to the entrance
you didn't see me climb
into the booth behind you.
i slipped my tongue in your ear
and you turned, frightened.
though it took you a moment
you recognized me and we smiled;
you at me and i wanted to laugh
at the trick i played on your ear.
you stuck your finger in it
to get the wet out. you ruined it.
i wanted to do it again, to show you,
to teach you not to tamper.
but the waitress at the diner
interrupted us and asked me
if i wanted a menu and a drink.

the Word Verification contest

brian writes:

Here's a very Mike Topp poem idea.

We should start saving all the word verification from now on.

Get up a few dozen of them, or less.

Title the poem: Word Verification
or something better. It's probably a horrible idea-- :)

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

i don't think it's a horrible idea at all, not in the slightest. in fact brian and i have been collecting words (or randomly generated combinations of letters) from the word verification feature on blogger. here's what we've come up with:

fnixasv
iznziaxg
mnqoziio
hyrojl
pomty
mekytd
ixruax
hspzjf
svonn
vqdbueyi
huhue
umtojx
afadh
psyasrb
kouuopvx
lqbppgfe
auusqsl
ajbfnier
zzgjxz
kmsol
uaisr
lgrcruu
cffzzyc
ousabw
kqhnc
zasyrssb
epshzu
eupac klbpn
vadusmf
gsqnk


the object of the contest is to use these "words" in a poem (at least as many as you can!). then post your poem in the comments field of this post (as i have already) or post a link to your poem as it appears else where.

(note, this post crashed, exploded, and destroyed everying in it's wake, so i might have some words in my poem that i didn't put in this list, as i didn't save the original list and can't be arsed to float around in every place brian or i have posted comments in the last 2 weeks to find them all again. i knew you'd understand. if you want, feel free to pick out the nonesense words from my poem and use them.)

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

everyone is welcome and encouraged to participate. once there are enough poems the executive board of judges* will chose a favorite (or however many favorites they want). the poets of the selected favorites will be honored with a pinata in their likeness.**

*tba
**or something equally as exciting and wonderful.

pneumonia boy

i took him to the urgent care center
down the road from our house.
the old man there told him
that he has pneumonia and gave him
a thousand different pills to swallow
and an inhailer for his breathing.
he's under house-quarintine
for as many as five days. we got a note.
i called him in sick to work for the week.
now i am taking care of him.
i fed him soup and bread and ice tea.
he's not coughing, but i know he hurts.

((((monkee))))

this is your something katy update:

edits have been made and notes added to

husband and wife (revision)

and

the imaginary me

and

this is a shameless plug for po'et'ship. go there.

he's doing it again

husband and wife (revision)

he reads the back of a bag
of russet potato chips
just so i can listen
and get lost in his voice.

we kiss at the light
while the car is stopped
and the people behind
honk their horn at us.

i am not a robot i insist
as he presses one finger
into the small of my back:
this makes me move forward--
involuntarily.

i am learning to tolerate,
and in some ways appreciate,
stupidly spicy dishes
because he does all the cooking.

when we leave the cinema
after watching a scary film
he complains about his arm
hurting from when i held on
too tight.

the only way i'm able
to fall asleep in the car
is if i rest my head
on his shoulder or lap.

we call them "the kids";
my childhood teddy bear,
three little stuffed monkeys,
and the bear we rescued
from the side of the road.

my hand is fused to his chest
as we lay on our sides
dreaming about pancake diners
and organic spaceships.

when i get up in the morning
he rolls over onto my pillow
because, he says, it smells like me.


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

NOTES on 1/30/06
under construction syndrome
we have all voiced our opinions on the matter of what has happened to this poem in it's expansion. some of that subtlety, some of that innocents (or care or whatever you want to call it), seems to have vanished. i am tempted to keep only the last stanza at this point. however, the process of thinking up these moments, condensing them, molding them, is so much fun that i don't want to give up on the piece and settle on a three-line-long poem that could be much more. my idea for this poem now is for it to be presented as a collection, individual poems--untitled and unnumbered--and spanning over several pages so that each moment might have the gift of all that empty space. it's too long here. it's over-board on trite, and i know this. so this poem, you see, is in mid-drafting phases. i've decided to let some sections go (like the previous one about fingers and eyelids) and will continue to update this post with added sections as i deem fit. keep commenting, please, so that i can gage my progress through your eyes as well as through my own. you guys are fantastic, i wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for you. thank you all so much!

the hotel science series (some more)

hotel science XV

the correct pattern to follow
when folding a pool towel
is as follows:

1) fold in half "the long way"

2) fold in half again "the same way"

3) fold in thirds "the other way"

so that the pigmented stripe
is parallel to the length
of the towel when folded.

hotel science XVI

through mathematical tribulations
we have concluded that
it is more cost effective
to purchase 4 post cards for $1
than it is to buy 3 post cards
at 30 cents a piece.

hotel science XVII

condensation on glass windows
surrounding the indoor pool
will occur if:

a) the jacuzzi has been at full bubble
for 1.32 hours or longer.

b) there is equal to or greater than 32
breathing humans in the surrounding area
for 47 minutes or longer.

or

c) both instances a and b occur
simultaneously.


hotel science XVIII

the frequency of a squeaky wheel
on a housekeeping cart is

cosine3 over 3x
if x equals the wick of the carpet.*


hotel science XIX

8 test subjects were selected at random
and asked to operate a toaster
with their choice of bread or bagel.

2 of our subjects chose bread.
6 of our subjects chose bagel.
4 of our subjects could not
get their desired product to toast.
1 of our subjects cursed at the toaster.
1 of our subjects toasted 2 bagels at once.
2 of our subjects asked for assistance
in operating the toaster.

the results have been compiled
and we conclude that

a) more people prefer bagels than do toast

and

b) our toasters are too advanced
for the average hotel guest.

hotel science XX

hotel-room key-cards
have a consistent depleasion rate
of 9 percent.



*please note: i have not taken a maths course in... hold on let me count... 4 years; therefore, this is not in any way a real equation (that i know of) and is probably embarrassingly incoherent.

the imaginary me

i am a pencil wielding sci-fi princess
drawing maps of make-believe solar systems
wherein frank o'hara never died, never grew old,
and liked girls as much as boys.

or

i am a little girl with a poetry fetish;
all three of matthew rohrer's collections
hidden under my pillow for safe keeping
while i day-dream about being mina loy
and having dinner with louise zukofsky.

or

i am one half of a comfortable partnership,
non threatening, always smiling and always there.
i am pacing a hotel lobby, biting my lips
in deep thought; fueled by some alien energy,
something other than coffee.

or

i am a lower case k. i am a picture
of a doll with black hair, green eyes
and moods that are determined by my stomach.
i am in love with him, with life, with dreams,
with robots, with leonard cohen, and with you.


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

inspired by and dedicated to a.; this is what you get for calling me cute.

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

NOTES on 1/30/06
about i-am
i have considered, brian, everything noted in your comments and email. i completely agree with droping the i-am before fueled in the 3rd stanza and have edited some of the punctuation to accomidate the change there. as far as the rest of the i-am's are concerned (especially the ones placed mid-stanza) they are part of the cadance, i feel. i will continue to reread it to myself, and perhaps bring the matter to tcp, but for the mean time, this is the draft that's sticking. thank you for giving me your input; you are oh so helpful and encouraging, i can't thank you enough, really.

hotel science XII (amended)

hotel science XII

extensive observations have revealed
that within a 12-month period
the mean distance traversed
by a pool-side chair

is 67.52 miles.

noah eli gordon

noah is the man responsible for un-defining poetry for me. my first poetry class at umass was taught by noah, then a graduate ta. the class was called "experimental poetry" and wouldn't you know, i ended up there by accident! (right room, wrong day.)
it's noah's fault that i love bernadette mayer and that i have no idea how to even begin to go about trying to define poetry.
i was looking for some matthew rohrer poems online to show brian when i stumbled onto the site (as linked by rohrer's name) and saw noah's name on the list to the left.

so i thought i'd introduce everyone to him.

everyone, this is noah.
noah, this is everyone.


noah has lots of tattoos.

the hotel science series (cont.again)

hotel science X

housekeepers' complaints
are triggered primarily
by lack of sufficient gratuity.

hotel science XI

not all pillows are created equal.

hotel science XII

extensive observations have revealed
that the mean* distance
traversed by a pool-side chair
is 67.52 miles within a 12-month period.

hotel science XIII

if the total percent taxes of town and state
are less than the total percent discount applicable
then the guest saves money.

the guest saves money if and only if
the aforementioned guest
has the appropriate documents.

hotel science XIV

i am not sure if i am representing
the roman numerals correctly any more.




*also known to poets as the "average"


ps
i would like to declair my love for mathworld. can a poet have a favorite website dedicated to mathmatics? well, she does; even though most of it doesn't make any sense to her. *grin*

to do list

update: write draft of personal statement for grad application
how much had i been complaining about that to you, arch? hmmn?
*big smile*


make dentist appointment
call insurance company about car
wait for insurance company to call me back
make sure wibble doesn't die
put together drafts for po'et'ship
email poets.org about marie howe not being a listed poet on their site
bills, rent
email professor welburn
write draft of personal statement for grad application
dishes
make edits to "graces"

all in all not a bad day, espcially considering it's not even 3 yet.

we're falling apart

the world is falling apart... wibble seems to have a spot of ich (pronounced ick, how fitting). we've dealt with it before, but we have painful memories of the sudden loss of mr meow, wibble's spotted brother, to the nasty ich. sigh. tomorrow is going to be a very long day of staring at the fish tank.

box turtle

i am the turtle, boxed in my shell.

the hood of my fever, the breast of my armor,

the brazen of a heat-born rock at my feet;

protect from these--winter's evil spirits.

i dreamt

i dreamt

that we ate pancakes together
in a cafe where
they don't serve pancakes.

all the vitamin c in the world

won't stop the ache getting into your bones
won't stop the lights shining too brightly
won't stop the fatigue, the chills, the bitter taste


that's me whining. my jaw hurts.

and i can't call in sick for work because there's no one to call in to... grumble.

graces

slow dancing in the reception hall,
ignoring his family and newly wed cousin
he kissed me, his hands resting
awkwardly on my shoulders.
he asked me want to go?
and i said yes, so we left.

goose bumps ran the course of my back
by the time we arrived at the house.
we crept in through the porch door,
through the kitchen then up
to his childhood bedroom--painted blue
with a dinosaur bed spread and matching pillows.

i read a story he wrote in sixth grade
about a camel with no hump
while he woke up his little brother
to ask if he could borrow a condom.

when i woke i saw him asleep
in an old wooden chair,
his head propped up against a bookshelf

and two unused condoms lay
dutifully on the bed-side stand.



original:
slow dancing in the middle of the crowd;
in the middle of the reception hall
he kissed me, his hands resting
awkwardly on my shoulders.
he asked me "want to go?"
and i said "yes", and we left
the room in a single file line.

goose bumps ran the course of my back
by the time we arrived at the house;
the car had warmed up just enough.
we crept in through the porch door
and through the kitchen and up
to his childhood bedroom--painted blue
with a dinosaur bed spread and matching pillows.

i read a story he wrote in sixth grade
about a camel with no hump
while he woke up his little brother
to ask if he could borrow a condom.

when i woke i saw him asleep
on an ancient wooden chair,
his head propped up against a bookshelf

and two unused condoms lay
dutifully on the bed-side stand.

the hotel science series (cont.)

hotel science VI

an expert team of botanists
discovered today
that plastic plants are unaffected
by the change in seasons.

hotel science VII

1% of all guests
leave cell phone chargers behind.
there are no satisfactory hypotheses
to explain this strange behavior.

hotel science IIX

the trajectory of a wet pool towel,
when thrown into a basket,
is determined by the guests' desire
to throw it into a basket
or leave it on a chair for someone else
to throw into a basket.

hotel science IX

the height of 4 $1 bills
when stacked on top of one another
is greater than the height
of the slot on the snack machine
where $1 bills are typically accepted.

we learn, when placing 4 $1 bills
on top of one another
and then proceed to feed them
to the slot on the snack machine,
that this is indeed a fact.

on Marie Howe

here is the best eleven dollars and ninety five cents i have ever spent.

The Good Thief is a mere 52 pages of poetry, yet the most breath taking, stunning... i am in love with you marie howe.

there is a sore on my back
from where i lent into the counter;
reading your words doubled my weight
i could not stand, but listen.
my inner voice turned into something
under a trance and swaying to yours.

really, i hurt myself and i didn't feel it happening.

marie is a magnificent and powerful woman--my new role model. i want to grow up to be as much a poet as she.

i had the opportunity to read almost every poem out loud, in full range of my voice. i fear though, my own voice is lacking the nuance and grace of marie's intention. she's that good.

and i the poet

someone called me "the brightest star"
first thing this morning, first thing at 10:30

someone told me "i love you" and "that's good"
when i called him at the office where he works

someone offered me an apartment
a few doors down from his, so i'd be nearer

and throughout, the sun put on a stunning glow
and the bog lay still with the red leaves of winter
blanketing in the seeds of next fall's growth

and i the poet, starting sentences with and
am warm inside my house, with a goldfish as company.

everyday

everyday has a poem hidden inside it.
some days, i have trouble finding it.

i miss atticus

atticus, which now goes by the boring name amherst books, is the one place in amherst i miss the most. no, i never spent very much time there really, but it's where i attended some of my memorable readings. it's where i would go to find that collection of poems that no one else had. it's where they keep matthew rohrer's three collections IN STOCK!! it was the only place on the planet that sold kobo ade's the woman in the dunes. and the old fellows that ran the place seemed to know every book ever printed (which is awesome). i know that if i went in there today i would be able to find something by mina loy, anything. but, alas, atticus (i won't stop calling it that, by the way) is a 3 hour drive away from my home on cape cod. instead i am given this book-mall of mass-produced bribble brabble blahdom borders. i love borders for a lot of reasons (one being that i can't not love a book store, no matter how awful, it's a built in fault of my processor chip); they have really nice hot cocoa, an allegiance with jelly belly, and stupidly comfy sofas strewn all about. there are, too, though, reasons for which i loath the place. in comparison to the poetry section at wee little atticus, borders is severely lacking. atticus has got about 5 feet more shelf space of just poetry (never mind theory or poetics) than borders, and borders dedicates some of its small poetry space to some of the worst looking anthologies i've ever come across; meanwhile, not one copy of postmodern can be found. what i did find at borders tonight though (i had a spiffy gift card) was marie howe's the good thief and a collection of george oppen's poems (sadly though, there are only two poems from discrete series (fortunately not two of the ones i already have copies of), but i suppose the intro by robert creeley will make up for that)). i also picked up dave barry does japan and talk to the hand by lynne truss (who is brilliant and funny). now i just have to finish my first dr who novel so that i can crack some more binding (i don't, actually, crack the bindings of my books, it's just an expression). had i had a $50 gift card to atticus i would have come home with mina loy and some kawabata (can you believe that the only kawabata novel they had was snow country?!? the one i already have!!!). be grateful what you have right? *sigh*

the hotel science series

hotel science I

this morning we tested how many sips
it takes a girl
to drink a large mug of tea
with milk and too much sugar

the results have revealed
that the answer is fibonacci*.

hotel science II

the rate at which the volume of a lobby increases
is directly related to the number of guests
and indirectly related to the age of the guests.

we exclude the occasional pool party
from our findings.

hotel science III

the accidental spillage of milk and cheerios
is followed by crying 47.923% of the time.

hotel science IV

today we concluded that 6 out of every 7 adults
upon passing the front desk
will have something to say about the weather.

hotel science V

it takes exactly 138 seconds
for halogen lights above a pool
to reach full brightness.



* all you need to know about fibonacci can be found here.



_____________________________________

it's 8:32am, i'm at work. can you tell i'm bored?

dear salamander

the rain blanketed out the sun this morning,
and the stench of fresh brewed coffee
forced my stomach to churn and curdle.

i let my warm tea escape down the hollow drain,
and left myself without a warmth
for my fingers to wrap around.

i read all of your poems today.

and now i secretly hope that you'll call me
and read them all out loud to me;
but i know you don't know my number,
and i know you don't like phones
at least as much as i don't.

i can't cry at work, but i want to.
i want to stop reading, but i can't.

and i suddenly realize
that all the light in here isn't real.
and i'd forgotten
what it felt like to be hungry.

you force upon me some semblance
of a poetess--something worthy--
when, in truth, i am not really writing poetry anymore.
it's regurgitate fantasy ground to a pulpit
by my girlish will to keep secrets.

i encourage myself to squirm loose
from the embrace of a poet,
but my inner eye sees only
the red salamander.

it's still raining as i rub my temples
with two fingers of each hand
to focus my eyes on my hair,
my visual frame to the world.
i blur the picture for a briefest moment
before the phone rings

and it's not you.

mr chris from aelon says:

Your blog must be pretty popular because we always got a fair few visitors linking in from your blog =)


i won't tell chris that it's me who generates all that traffic by using my blog as a favorites list and checking nearly twice a day to see if ryan's written anything. regaurdless, he asked ryan why i'd taken down my button; i told ryan to tell chris that he could make me a button, and lo. there's a new aelon button!

we need to talk

anna andreyevna akhmatova i love you

i forgot, dear anna, how much i adore your poems. (thank you arch for reminding me about her by putting her collection up on that recommended list on your blog.)

below is a mere morsel of this woman's amazing craft (and the beautiful work of translator Lyn Coffin). truly inspirational and beautiful is the beloved anna akhmatova, and devastatingly under appreciated. even i forgot about her. my grandmother of poetry.


The three things he loved most in life
Were white peacocks, music at mass,
And tattered maps of America.
He didn't like kids who cried and he
Didin't like raspberry jam with tea
Or womanish hysteria.
...And I was, like it or not, his wife.

1910-1911



Broad and yellow is the evening light,
The coolness of April is dear.
You, of course, are several years late,
Even so, I'm happy you're here.

Sit close at hand and look at me,
With those eyes, so cheerful and mild:
This blue notebook is full, you see,
Full of poems I wrote as a child.

Forgive me, forgive me, for having grieved
For ignoring the sunlight, too.
And especially for having believed,
That so many others were you.

1915



THE LAST TOAST

I drink to the house, already destroyed,
And my whole life, too awful to tell,
To the loneliness we together enjoyed,
I drink to you as well,
To the eyes with deadly cold imbued,
To the lips that betrayed me with a lie,
To the world for being cruel and rude,
To God who didn't save us, or try.

1934



THE WILLOW

And a decrepit bunch of trees.
Pushkin

I grew up where all was patterned and silent,
In the cool nursery of the age, itself young;
I didn't like human words, spoken or sung,
But i understood what the wind meant.
I liked burdock and nettles but the will tree,
The silver willow, I liked especially.
It lived gratefully with me till now
And with its weeping branches seemed
To make dreamlessness like something dreamed.
It's hard to believe I outlived it somehow.
There's a stump. And in alien tongues, other willows
_____will
Be saying whatever it is they say
Under our skies, under theirs. I'm completely still.
It's as if my brother had died today.

1940

grrr

i am so sick of news coverage on television. i don't even know where to begin. how about the guy who decides that it's okay to put an image of a mother and her two children walking across a CROSS WALK only to be run over and criticality injured by a reckless driver? never mind that, what about the guy who decides it's okay to show this at 8 o'clock in the morning? kids haven't even gone out to catch the bus yet and they're exposed to this!? this being a video clip worse than anything i've seen in a horror film; worse because it's REAL!! then the news reporter turns around in her cushy swivel chair to cover a stroy about how violent video games are effecting children. hello?

today, which is what spurred me to pull out the soap box, i saw a man steel some cash out of a convenient shop drawer only to be beaten to a pulp by the two men who worked at the shop. yeah, okay, so what katy? so this; the men are shown on the clip as running around the counter with wooden baseball bats.
i'm not going to get into an argument about who was or who wasn't in the right. my point is with the image itself. put a scene like that in a film (something an individual CHOOSES to be exposed to) and it gets an R rating; yet put it on the news at 10 in the morning and everyone's alright with it? where are the critics? where are the monitors? where are the mothers?

yeah, i watch plenty of horror films filled with rotting corpses, people being beat up, tortured, murdered; but, i also watch the making-of documentaries and commentaries and interviews included with all those films (when available on dvd, for example). so yes, i watch plenty of horror films, but i also reaffirm the fact that they are fake, make believe, NOT REAL. i also have the opportunity to choose when and where i watch these images. i do not, under any circumstances, want to be exposed to grotesque images while i'm at work. i do not want to be surprised by a mother and her children being run over when i've just started my day, it's horrific and unfair to the victims to exploit their trauma for a higher viewing figure. i'm absolutely disgusted and furious with the tv news networks. (one in particular, but i dare not mention it because i have a bias to begin with; don't i katie couric?)

all this violence, death and suffering, and these news reporters are content to turn around in their chair, pretend like it never happened, and cover a story about an auction for a 2-headed snake?!? you have got to be kidding me.

from now on, i swear, it's cartoon network or nothing, because at least the violence in cartoons is satirical enough that even children understand that it isn't real.

avatarific

uber thanks to the wonderfullest michelle and to the girl of many hair colours, lucy for my lovely new avatar (here and on the crit poet). i LOVE it!





also, mucho thanks to my boyo, for resizing the pics for me to actually be able to apply them (you're the bestest).

arigato ichiban no tomodachi!

and then i wrote this poem

i thought about throwing it out,
folded neatly and wrapped
in a bow of apathy.
but no. of course not.
this sentimental female,
a disfigurement of a poet.
a thing; something;
_____with a mild mind
_____two arms and too much.

feigning genius w/ drew

new feature folks... am going to link to someone else's blog of poetry when i can't think of anything to write myself. i just ran into drew on the crit poet forum and found my way to his blogspot where the first post (currently) is a lovely little series of poems about poetry. enjoy.

the many faces of poetry by andrew williams

without your sex

the only glow is from the monitor
as i carelessly pick at my toe nails,
my legs tangled in your office chair.
i am trying to write a poem about you.
trying to express, in mere words,
the masculine sensitivity i can smell
just before you lean in to kiss me.
a stubborn shiver leaves the word
on the precipice of my fingers.
i reach to write, abandoning my toes
when you swoop. the scent of your breath
and the soft pink of your lips take me
as you perch just below my left ear.
spin the chair around and the word is gone...
no others will taste you, your kiss;
but my poetry doesn't sell without your sex.

wrap

i ran the wrap around you;
the sheet with a knot.
i tore the sole of your shoe
by running on the ice
you forbid me from.
and it was me who called
at three o'clock sunday morning
just to test you, to see
if you'd answer and you did,
but you couldn't stay on.



================================

am, at the moment, focused on recovering myself out from the swamp of poems posted while i was away from the crit poet. thanks reid for the welcoming return (ever a beacon). as for my own poetry... i'm all about chit chat at the moment, aren't i? above is proof that i'm currently crap at the poetic form itself, though i've been endulging in poetic theory and grumblings about life along side the arch (which will soon be available on po'et'ship.

will attempt some more poetrite tonight, will post the results tomorrow, wish me luck...

p.s. i bought a car today, holy ef

lobSTAR

first thing this morning at work a regular guest (i work at a hotel) asked me if i like lobster. lo, the results...

we actually had to buy a new pot to cook her in (we decided it's a lady because she had all sorts of frilly bits). good for us that we live in the sort of place where the regular super market stocks lobster pots (we're talking a pot that makes a normal-sized pot look like a ladle) year round.



...of course, ryan's first reaction is try to fit the whole thing in his mouth.







i'm not being shy here, it's more that i didn't want to get given a steam bath by a posthomous shell fish.



...and the little boy in him surfaces for some antena wiggling.

the launch

the wonderful arch.memory and i have been corresponding for a little under a month now via email and have finally begun the pseudo-publication of our e-lationship as poets and compadres on blogger's
PO'ET'SHIP. the start may be slow, but once things pick up i'll endeavor to put up a fancy link.

the airplane poems

dear readership (all 3 of you),
here are the poems as they were written in my journal to and from england this past christmas. you may see them again in edited pieces, but for now, consider this poetry sushi -- little raw bits wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice...


#################################

i am the cat
covered in pools
of hot winter sun.
i am stretched
and disjointed
lying on your tax returns.
i am bending,
my tail caressing
the carpet.

i am like a cat
urging the magnified
sun through the window
bounced off the snow
to lick my exposed
fingers, face and belly.

i am alone in a hallway
reading William Hathaway
as you pass
and block the light.
we are Sleeping in Church
we are forgetting
by means of other Poets.

#################################

a different pen
and a different ache
specifically unfriendly
the battle for space



and there's nothing but black outside.

#################################

the smell of pretzles (oh how i loath even the word)
the unkind preasure
swells in my stomach
how many painful hours
left in this wretch of
a bird?
and why can't i write?
the ideas missing
with space, with room.

#################################

how to read frank o'hara:
obey

#################################

trundle forward, my whims,
on the coat of a handsome boy
or the plate of a fine dessert
find yourself bemused with green.

#################################

on an airoplane with frank o'hara i dreamt
about the letter you'd never send and
coloured bottles of water from france.

#################################

i did not drop the letter, and i don't feel
particularly
about it, one way or the other.

#################################

now,
try to compose a poem.

#################################

do do do the funky gibbon

while we were in england over the holiday, ryan and i did our best at staying up late and waking up even later--an ill attempt at remaining on american time?--and one of the consequences of this was watching old performances on "Top of the Pops" (the british american bandstand, i guess). one of the more memorable performances was "The Funky Gibbon" song. this is one of those novelty songs that never caught on. my guess as to why it never caught on is that it's awful. well, aside from the fact that the three men singing the song looked like gibbons themselves, the group had Nothing going for them, the song was too long to be cute, and the dance sucked.

aside from late night tv programming (which, even in glorious england has dramatic faults), the only other not-so-nice thing about our trip was the flight over. ryan was nervous about immigration to the point of being incapable of just about anything beyond hugging and holding my bag when i asked him (it's a very cute sort of pathetic, i'll admit). on top of that i had one of my worst times on a plane.

everything else about the trip--even the longer flight back to the states and the real test of immigration laws--was perfect. i'd venture to say that this was one of my best christmas's to date. i know it was ryan's best, and defiantly his mum's best.

this year was different, it was all about the people. ryan, his sister and her husband, ryan's dad and myself all conspired to surprise ryan's mum with the one thing she really wanted, and the one thing she knew she couldn't have--for her son to show up at her front door on christmas. what a sweet wish to begin with! all's she wanted was her whole family to be together. and what's more, it happened to be ryan's grandad's 80th birthday on boxing day. the opportunity to surprise her and the grandparent's was too great to pass up so ryan and i booked our holiday as soon as possible and had been holding our tongues up until the surprise itself.

we flew into manchester to visit ryan's old stomping grounds, to meet up with a few friends and to make a special pilgrimage to the coveted Pizza Co (great news, they're expanding!!). one of the men that run pizza co actually remembered ryan and asked him why he hadn't been in for such a long time. ryan told him he'd moved to americaland and that, after having a pizza, it was the best pizza he'd had in almost 2 years, which i think really made that man's day, if not year. merry christmas pizza co.

it didn't hurt that kerry and richard (ryan's sister and spouse) live in manchester and were able to pick us up and then later drive us to derby for the christmas surprise.

when we got to derby ryan and i went stealth and hid out of sight until kerry and richard delivered their line about having gotten mum something they couldn't wrap. the instant she saw ryan the tears turned on and she covered her face in disbelief. it was the perfect reaction. she kissed and hugged him and cried and by the time we got inside she had us sat on either side of her holding onto us to make sure we were really there. and then we all got to tell her about all the plans and conspiring that had gone on--that the goose was ryan's request, that we'd had the tickets since august and so on.

grandma reacted the same way the day after when she and grandad arrived. grandad just called me the sneaky one the whole weekend :)

goose is really nice; let that be known. and the real meaning of christmas is dessert... i mean family and dessert. honestly, the reason this christmas was so wonderful was because we were all there together and the presents didn't matter one way or the other (though mum, being a mum ran out as soon as she could and bought ryan and i lots of prezies to unwrap on christmas morning).

there's a lovely few pictures of the whole group of us that ryan's doctoring a bit (richard had his eyes closed for the best picture of everyone else...) which i'll put here once they're ready. i'm also composing a list of things i love about britain (not sure, yet, how long it will be though) and i have a pile of poems that i wrote on the plane and before the journey which i'll type up and display here.

hopefully this new year's celebration will be just as lovely. i'm going to kick everyone's butts at that zombie board game and then run really far away when ryan breaks out the karaoke game...

happy new year everyone

english crimbo

so i spent christmas in england (couldn't explicitly post that prior to leaving because heaven forbid ryan's mum reading my blog and finding out, thus, spoiling her uber christmas surprise) and while i was there i managed to take a few pictures of my favorite building in the universe, the lovely and well loved Victoria Baths. i've written a poem about this particular building (Tower and Gentleman) which was previously posted on this blog. here are those pics anyway...









i'll post more about my trip as well as the bits of poetry i wrote on the airplane there and back soon... at the moment though... *eyes half open* i'm let jaggeding

holiday

clockwise starting from the top left is Ryan (my boyo), myself, rachel, bunny and finally adam.

we got together because rachel has been in belfast for the past 4 or so months. there ought to have been more of us there but communication between so many people on such short notice doesn't always result in mass gatherings. it was easier when we all lived in the same house. anyway, it was a lovely night, just hanging out, talking about gay bars, how bunny now lives with a stripper and watching adam use a wine-bottle opener to destroy innocent grapes.

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

it's the holy-days ladies and fine gentlemen,
so my blog is dormant for a week or so.

but i promise poems and joy will return.

the very merry best to you all (those fine few who visit),

xoxo

remember me not

.
remember me not
for where the color seeps through
but for the black that surrounds us
for the photographer's tongue
and the poet's lense
.


originally posted here

also see

what i'm married to

^ don't be afraid to laugh ^

bead

my fingers smell after you
as we, the rejected few,
declare a dramatic love affair.
my hair grows longer
as your face grows thinner
and we are lost in eyes
deeply set in on some truth,
some sound or some food.
with no resolution,
we are resolved to this string
of whispers in the dark
on some unholy marriage bed.

an ode to frank o'hara

she's the woman you want, Frank O’Hara,
between the beige sheets of your bed in the morning.
she'll tell you how she thinks Hesiod
was just a scared Benjamin Franklin.
then she'll listen when you tell her
that the poet she should be concerned with
is not Hesiod at all, but another Greek.

she'll offer you Echinacea to go with you ciggy and beer
as she stands there naked and smiling.
you'll want to touch her as she moves,
she's soft and young.
she's soft but fueled.
she's dedicated to you.

she's the kind of lady you'll want
to dance with when you're drunk and stuttering.
she'll laugh and lead you in any steps.

trust me, she's the right girl to take home to your mother.
she'll help cook and clean
without intruding on family traditions.
you should be willing to sleep on your own sofa
so that she gets a handsome night sleep in your old bedroom.

she might get upset when you tell her
you slept with another man
but she's still in love with you after all.
she'll sleep in your bed, in your house,
whether you're there or not,
and she won't stop until you tell her to go home.

be kind to her Frank O’Hara,
there are so few of these true lovers left in the world today,
especially in your city of art.

she'll want to move to a beach house but won't,
not without you, she says, and you'll believe her,
and make her stay for the night.
you can lie together, just you O’Hara
and this little minx of knowledge and eye power,
and she'll know just where to touch you—
to make you shiver.

this should be your favorite part,
she'll talk in her sleep,
more so after sex than usual,
and she'll share her secrets with you then.
she'll tell you she trusts you.
that's when you can tell her you know she loves you.
she's the kind of girl you want to love.
tell her that. tell her you want to love her.
that you know all her secrets
and that it's okay to love you for now.

give her a kiss like you've never given before
but don't touch her.
later you'll hug her, hold her,
feel her melt in your dirty arms
covered in the city's charcoal dust
and smeared with pastel.

she's the only girl you want to know,
but you still wish she was a man
so she could be your best friend,
then you wouldn't need to know anyone else.

you'll fall in love with her body
because of the way she touches you with it.
she loves you with it.

don't tell your mother anything about her before,
just bring her there.
she's the kind of lady your mother will love
(she'll wish she was her daughter)
then your mother will ask you while you're alone
if you plan to marry her.
you have your mother's blessings.

don't sleep with her that night
no matter how much her smile turns you on,
wait until your back at your flat,
back between your well-worn sheets.
she'll ask you to leave the big window shades open
so she can see the city stars while you make love to her.

she might cry now and again, but only when she's happy.
if she tells you she's pregnant don't ask her who the father is.
you know she'd only ever sleep with poets.
the baby would be yours, if you had her Frank O’Hara.

she is your Byzantium;
the kind of woman you should have had.


__________________________________________________________

an oldie but a goodie. i must have written this at least 3 years ago. not bad though really.

stage hand

some romantic sod
in black in blue in love
with being left out

waiting on a couch
for his princess
her orange hair glittering

he imagines her breasts
then he imagines her breath
he checks his own

behind the high.school stage
on left over furniture
their love happens



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

just a little something to keep you warm tonight.

nizlopi's jcb song

^ click the title ^

always a poet

he is always a poet;
my gentle man—

my R
_____my A
__________my W

one in three deceiving faces
hidden beneath words like a bed spread.

will you seduce me tonight?

i wrote it on a batman napkin
left over from a little boy's birthday party.

do I wait for a reply,
or will you surprise me?
bring me a white petal.ed rose
and wear that scarf i bought last winter?

he is always a poet;
take a seat beside me, will you whisper?
tell me true stories of women and men?

a warm palm against my cold cheek;
the battle between man and wind;
the prize is a tribute, a front row seat,
or an autumn of burning trees
and real mud.

he is always a poet
he comes to me like a moth,
too long at the flame;
in my arms burned, crisp with no voice
left to beat his wings.

my men of song;
always, they are poets
at the podium in front of a woman
and wavering, these gentle men,
these paper dolls with no clothes on.


------------------------------------
thank you dear arch.memory for your recommendation for this title. you're right.

morning child (draft 3)

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

last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through your dreams;
and the distinct smell of picture books
filled your heart or some other appendage.

this unfinished heaven; this holy bed spread;
the innocence of a little boy's curiosity;
became her unholy battle field against you
and a million secrets left under the mattress.

world record

is there a world record
for number of world records
held by an individual?

morning child + revision =

hidden behind morning locks, a glass reflection
of his morning beard and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in his good eye;

last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through his childhood dreams
and the distinct smell of picture books.

the desecration of his bed of innocents,
of exploration and of a million secrets,
revealed her as a break from morning rituals.

revision

as in some cases, revisions can suck the life out of a piece... my heart hurts with every tiny addition and subtraction...

morning child is in ruins...

hidden behind morning locks, a glass reflection
of his morning beard and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in his good eye.

last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through his childhood dreams
and the distinct smell of picture books.

the desicration of this bed of innocents,
of exploration and a million secrets
left him ...

and i haven't got the propper energy to help it.

you see, i've been trying on some suggestions from the critical poetry forum (a fantastic place with the most beautifully honest and sensitive peers). unfortunatly for morning child, i considered it a finished piece, so when the news came to me that it was everything but, and that the grammar got in the way of people enjoying it... uhge.

i love the way the original sounds, it's beautiful to hear and taste, it's abstract and meaningful... but, maybe i'm wrong.

i'll keep it updated here. hopefully something magnificant will grow out of it.

blah with revision on this... blah blah blah

(okay, i could be tired is all)

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.

eggs

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
still
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 ...]

doll

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.

k0w

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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
Disinterestedness;

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.

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,
Yes.

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
Hamburg
Enough

Correspond to these Icelandic characters—
Equations
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
Food

Tendency must not have reassured the professor
Holstein,
Else

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!

a king amongst bones

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

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: ...

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.

hallowe'en

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...

bogged

there's a beautiful cranberry bog behind our house here. i took a kabillion photos as soon as i got home and saw the man peddling around on his hover craft churning all the berries to the surface. having spent my life on cape cod, i've never actually been witness to the churning part of bogging--i'd always assumed that as soon as they flooded the bogs the berries just popped up.