The ‘Thing’ Itself

January 23, 2011 § Leave a comment

Isn’t a thing. Is not this one?

Gracious, no.

I miss you. Come play with the pigeons and I.

I’ve been having flashbacks, and today I get my chalkboard. Art is not immortal. It is temporarily beautiful.

I miss you. Come play.

Sundown. Soon. Afternoon.

I’m getting by. I’d rather be gotten.

Good for someone.

I haven’t forgotten the seahorse-whisperer’s hearing difficulty, or the way the street curves left around your jawline.

Like a movement trying not to be a movement.

I’d rather be ‘had’ than hunted down. And I’d rather not be wearing you in this morning’s Metro and I’d rather be a father than a frown and I’d rather be mothering your frown than forgetting:

You have one.

Nuance: Margaret

January 21, 2011 § Leave a comment

thirteen minutes re-checking the check-in desk
i saw the lights switch on in your babyskull
god, and you had it made


it took me a night to get over the nightmare of you
and the bear, newborn
a whole night of nothing
that was it
and the ‘it’ of it all
drove me out

could I have handled your handle on it any better
there is no answer

i’m tired now, i’m putting ice on my ankle
i should have scraped the street for that glittering cold
yet it’s ready-made, this
packed winter
packs the pain off home, wherever
that might or may

i can distract the seahorses
i can woo the water in my dream
but i can’t prevent you from offering me chewing gum
and pity
and time alone with my chalk-white family of headstones
i can’t have anything i don’t need

Here, You Almost Are

January 15, 2011 § Leave a comment

And I’m always having dreams about you. I’m still having dreams about you. I’m getting help in the form of dreams; they keep you close.

I’m so cold though.

My tree is empty and my swing is sleeping.

I’m still here though.

If you want to read my ‘poetry’

January 15, 2011 § Leave a comment

If you want to read my poetry, go onto the mountain, go up the mountain and put your spectacles on.

This is a poem. The sky is one big beautiful. And the beneath is a conclusion. Moral ending.

Don’t go to halftown, or the downtown, or the almosttheretown.

Don’t go to the bus shelter opposite where the mice knaw at her handbag and tickle her nail polish.

Don’t go to Prague on the pretense of a one-way.

Don’t bring spare shirts.

Go up into the mountain.

Go where the rock is person.

The person is brown.

The brown is world.

The world is living.

And when you get home, pick the package up, and hang it. Inside is a child’s glove and a jar of pickles.

Why would you open it?

Now you know it.

Now you know it.

And the world is your living.

A Poem by a Pony in a Red Sweater

January 9, 2011 § Leave a comment

what, if anything, is the world
to, if it comes to you
do you
ask it what it’s coming to
or ask
‘how do you do’
as a world, you must be
well for yourself, if not for others
it’s okay because you’re safe
and that’s what counts
if counting things
counts for anything, especially
out here
in the northern hem-i-sphere
the hem of the velvet ocean needs trimming
a snip there, and here
so you can be safer
and come to- under a sun, a moon, and an understanding
of this

blue shoes

Where Am I?

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