10:15 : rumbled half notes work their way across my night stand
Plucked staccato- moving, dancing, pausing
(Cheap MIDI counterpoint)
Exotic places, familiar faces
All disappear
Nearlyconsciously, push "repetición"
Eyes open, briefly
The leaves look perfect
Green rimmed in golden
(The glass is dirty)
10:19 : the song starts once again
Push the button and attack my bed
10:23 : this time, the song starts and you come in and
psst. psst. pSSST.
The leaves, for a moment, then eyes close
10:27 I do not remember
10:31 : This time, I am awake, though my eyes remain shut
And I think about the leaves until
10:35
10:39 : unleash the slow torrent
And start the day
Sunday, May 30, 2010
navigating quarters of the old city
under the arches
of the quarter
of shadows,
you lead us below
a blanket of
waving scarves
and weaved a careful path
past men leaning
against walls
with one knee bent,
and a foot pressed to the stones
(placed here 2,000 years ago,
you mumble)
and arms crossed,
perhaps ominously.
minutes before,
a sea of black suits
ruled from their wall,
but now the black hats
scamper through the alley
silently,
and in between your greens with guns
you sneak your hand up to scratch your head,
and slip off your yamaka.
DLS
of the quarter
of shadows,
you lead us below
a blanket of
waving scarves
and weaved a careful path
past men leaning
against walls
with one knee bent,
and a foot pressed to the stones
(placed here 2,000 years ago,
you mumble)
and arms crossed,
perhaps ominously.
minutes before,
a sea of black suits
ruled from their wall,
but now the black hats
scamper through the alley
silently,
and in between your greens with guns
you sneak your hand up to scratch your head,
and slip off your yamaka.
DLS
Friday, May 28, 2010
The Dream about You (VI)
The dream about you
came suddenly. It was like
a dream. Any other dream
I mean, even a dream
not about you. As if
the night were going
on and on but then
it was day and you
flew from miles and
miles away into my
kitchen and calmly sat
watching me prepare a
chicken for roasting, coating
its raw slippery skin with
butter like any other
of those many chickens
I’ve roasted in the last
months, the dream was
extraordinary but really
just everyday. I mean
like any other day. I remember
only the feeling and
not the plot if there
was a plot. So it
isn’t really a story
now, I guess, but a something
in the back of my mind. I
mean the feeling
of the dream, not the
events or sleeping. Maybe
not even the dream itself.
But it I mean the feeling
maybe was
about you. If the dream
was I don’t know.
—EWW
came suddenly. It was like
a dream. Any other dream
I mean, even a dream
not about you. As if
the night were going
on and on but then
it was day and you
flew from miles and
miles away into my
kitchen and calmly sat
watching me prepare a
chicken for roasting, coating
its raw slippery skin with
butter like any other
of those many chickens
I’ve roasted in the last
months, the dream was
extraordinary but really
just everyday. I mean
like any other day. I remember
only the feeling and
not the plot if there
was a plot. So it
isn’t really a story
now, I guess, but a something
in the back of my mind. I
mean the feeling
of the dream, not the
events or sleeping. Maybe
not even the dream itself.
But it I mean the feeling
maybe was
about you. If the dream
was I don’t know.
—EWW
- Clearly You Can't Hide From Me -
You
Are a lump of woollen blanket
I know what's beneath
You
Should have been up at eight thirty
Since then I've been awake and trying to entertain myself
And I've failed
You
I've failed you?
Don't kid me
I have breakfast ready
So there
You
Have ten seconds
One two three four five six seven eight oh forget it
The blanket is coming off
You
Clearly can't hide from me
Where did you go?
- JKP -
Are a lump of woollen blanket
I know what's beneath
You
Should have been up at eight thirty
Since then I've been awake and trying to entertain myself
And I've failed
You
I've failed you?
Don't kid me
I have breakfast ready
So there
You
Have ten seconds
One two three four five six seven eight oh forget it
The blanket is coming off
You
Clearly can't hide from me
Where did you go?
- JKP -
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Dusk
I find the sky
stilted in New Haven,
boxed up by
numberless roofs to the left
and roofs to the right.
It becomes
an above only,
a jagged precise
frame
of blue at day to black at night.
Seldom appear
the purples, pinks, and oranges
of Day’s last lavish display,
the sun’s rays made gentle
by its fading away.
Here, I see
to the right, a settling,
and to the left,
an uproar—
sky painted aggressively with
in-between color,
the purples, pinks, and oranges
of light gone astray,
mixed with mountain-tops and lake sheens,
sunshine yellow decays.
Both above and beside
does this vast expanse lie,
my limitless, open
Oregonian sky.
EWV
my mother's letters
You wrote:
Oh, it has all crumbled into the ocean
but I will buy coral necklaces and wear them
with nothing else.
You wrote:
That job went kaput, perhaps my parents told you.
A friend sold surfboards and gum in China,
asked if you would meet on a street in Providence.
Another went to the club but saw no familiar faces.
Boys told you Martha’s Vineyard never looked so glorious.
No news here, you wrote,
crossing out 'some bliss' in another-colored pen.
You brought a friend to Zurich because Paris was too cliché.
Having put down the sand, fruit drinks, and lobsters,
you wrote: still searching.
I wish I could have seen you, talking on docks with those men,
and the reckless tanning, with beads and nothing else.
On cold days in not-Paris, I bet you wore that black sweater
that I put on sometimes here in the future.
CDL
Oh, it has all crumbled into the ocean
but I will buy coral necklaces and wear them
with nothing else.
You wrote:
That job went kaput, perhaps my parents told you.
A friend sold surfboards and gum in China,
asked if you would meet on a street in Providence.
Another went to the club but saw no familiar faces.
Boys told you Martha’s Vineyard never looked so glorious.
No news here, you wrote,
crossing out 'some bliss' in another-colored pen.
You brought a friend to Zurich because Paris was too cliché.
Having put down the sand, fruit drinks, and lobsters,
you wrote: still searching.
I wish I could have seen you, talking on docks with those men,
and the reckless tanning, with beads and nothing else.
On cold days in not-Paris, I bet you wore that black sweater
that I put on sometimes here in the future.
CDL
on the weightlessness that comes on in summer
I live on an island and there are floating buildings trees
and lots of people I don’t know here.
Last night I hovered nine floors above the ground as girls
unbuttoned their dresses and drank cokes by open windows.
We were suspended in the heat and haze.
In the dark, we sized up sidewalk fiends and snapped
our fingers at them. We whistled, hollered, and I went
home smelling of smoke-sex-visions.
Summer makes people molten and strange, I’ve decided.
We think we know ourselves, and then the volume
is turned up, and we step into the black air where
we discover we can levitate. I think it is because we happen
to be young, alive and together all at once.
CDL
and lots of people I don’t know here.
Last night I hovered nine floors above the ground as girls
unbuttoned their dresses and drank cokes by open windows.
We were suspended in the heat and haze.
In the dark, we sized up sidewalk fiends and snapped
our fingers at them. We whistled, hollered, and I went
home smelling of smoke-sex-visions.
Summer makes people molten and strange, I’ve decided.
We think we know ourselves, and then the volume
is turned up, and we step into the black air where
we discover we can levitate. I think it is because we happen
to be young, alive and together all at once.
CDL
Dear Colonel Chamberlain,
It's abiding-
The something.
What they
Did here,
Abides.
It live on in the swells of
The contoured land
That rounds and falls
With a living breath,
It moves to the echo
Of the beating drum
And persistent footsteps
Of the brave men
And boys,
[Even the movement
from a past embrace of
The german brothers,
(two sides, one dead)
Or the girl baking bread
For union soldiers
(bullet through the kitchen window,
shot and killed)
Or the 1,0000 surgeons
Methodically amputating
limbs,
and lives
(7,000 shots
In just 3 days
With unprotected lead
Swimming through the
Bones)].
(My dreams grew violent,
In the abiding wake.
Three perfectly straight
Liquid red lines appeared
Across my stomach;
I swam in an invitingly cold river
To find my skin
The battlefield of clamped sea creatures;
An afternoon nap above the turmoil
Was interrupted by previously peaceful men
Now with talons longer than my arms
Climbing the wall outside my window
To avenge my mistakes.)
Ugly thoughts rising from their noble actions,
When all I want to write is the beauty and the heart and the tragedy.
It was real those days, though.
When Pickett charged,
It was not capital "N" North and
Capital "S" South,
or a noted and remembered address
testing the conception of
an ideal,
or state rights fighting human rights,
or even slavery:
It was a group of young
Men, in an open field
(no trees, no walls, no stones)
One by one
Shot,
Until collapsed knees
Beckoned the bodies back to the Earth,
Back to dust.
We can paint them as
Lilacs, drum taps, lightning strikes
Until their faces dissolve in metaphor,
(steady footsteps in the morning rain
revealed an immortalized battallion
with the blood in my own veins
and a name lines from mine
on an de-randomizing tree
somehow connecting us through
time and love.
But is it unfair to feel the loss
any more so than the others?)
Knowing them all
Simply as men, though
Puts a weight on my heart,
And a knot in my throat.
DLS
It's abiding-
The something.
What they
Did here,
Abides.
It live on in the swells of
The contoured land
That rounds and falls
With a living breath,
It moves to the echo
Of the beating drum
And persistent footsteps
Of the brave men
And boys,
[Even the movement
from a past embrace of
The german brothers,
(two sides, one dead)
Or the girl baking bread
For union soldiers
(bullet through the kitchen window,
shot and killed)
Or the 1,0000 surgeons
Methodically amputating
limbs,
and lives
(7,000 shots
In just 3 days
With unprotected lead
Swimming through the
Bones)].
(My dreams grew violent,
In the abiding wake.
Three perfectly straight
Liquid red lines appeared
Across my stomach;
I swam in an invitingly cold river
To find my skin
The battlefield of clamped sea creatures;
An afternoon nap above the turmoil
Was interrupted by previously peaceful men
Now with talons longer than my arms
Climbing the wall outside my window
To avenge my mistakes.)
Ugly thoughts rising from their noble actions,
When all I want to write is the beauty and the heart and the tragedy.
It was real those days, though.
When Pickett charged,
It was not capital "N" North and
Capital "S" South,
or a noted and remembered address
testing the conception of
an ideal,
or state rights fighting human rights,
or even slavery:
It was a group of young
Men, in an open field
(no trees, no walls, no stones)
One by one
Shot,
Until collapsed knees
Beckoned the bodies back to the Earth,
Back to dust.
We can paint them as
Lilacs, drum taps, lightning strikes
Until their faces dissolve in metaphor,
(steady footsteps in the morning rain
revealed an immortalized battallion
with the blood in my own veins
and a name lines from mine
on an de-randomizing tree
somehow connecting us through
time and love.
But is it unfair to feel the loss
any more so than the others?)
Knowing them all
Simply as men, though
Puts a weight on my heart,
And a knot in my throat.
DLS
home
Your fingers find the familiar switch
(first try!)
and the light illuminates a room
whose furniture you've felt before.
Your nose knows
the detergents, soaps, scents and more.
Your feet walk the pathways easily,
the twists and turns, the stairs and
the steps
from point A to point B.
Your ears know the ticks,
the tocks, the truck that comes by
every day at 3.
Your tongue takes in your mother's cooking,
greedily,
after months of separation.
-KAL
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Starry Night
I caught a glimpse of the stars one night,
out there in the woods.
A shame we couldn't see them, we'd said.
Then, suddenly, stealthily, it emerged from hiding--
a swath of late-night blue between the trees,
bedazzled with brightest white.
My summer to-do list is far too long
But I'd be content
just to sit here,
just to look up.
-KAL
The Dream about You (V)
Everyday I go to sleep holding my own hand
And dream of you with various hair.
Sometimes it’s short as we play tennis
And it hops up and down a little as you scream
And thrust the ball high in the air.
And now and then, over a game of dream chess
Your hair obscures one of my pieces messily
And I lose, thinking about your hair.
Or else I’m showering and find long strands
Clogging the drain, holding the water till it rises to my shins.
Sometimes I dream I’m cooking
Breakfast and I can only find hairpins
In the silverware drawer to cut the butter.
Once I dreamt that your bangs covered your nose,
Like in a horror movie. I was on my toes
In case you tried to eat my brains or something,
But I still kinda wanted to kiss you.
I woke up in a cold sweat and called (what else could I do?)
But you were either asleep or just let it ring and ring in the night air.
—EWW
And dream of you with various hair.
Sometimes it’s short as we play tennis
And it hops up and down a little as you scream
And thrust the ball high in the air.
And now and then, over a game of dream chess
Your hair obscures one of my pieces messily
And I lose, thinking about your hair.
Or else I’m showering and find long strands
Clogging the drain, holding the water till it rises to my shins.
Sometimes I dream I’m cooking
Breakfast and I can only find hairpins
In the silverware drawer to cut the butter.
Once I dreamt that your bangs covered your nose,
Like in a horror movie. I was on my toes
In case you tried to eat my brains or something,
But I still kinda wanted to kiss you.
I woke up in a cold sweat and called (what else could I do?)
But you were either asleep or just let it ring and ring in the night air.
—EWW
last week
salty chicken fat in the pan I clean and
candle wax in the cushions to rub out also
the trash to leave on the sidewalk as the sun rises
pale eggshells and strongsmelling coffee grounds
you are the refuse of summer nights
and you the folding of blankets into rectangles and
the gathering of empty winedark bottles with your labels you
are tasks I gladly take up because it is impossible to
stay anxious at the orchestration of these evenings
when the visitors dance so easily at the slightest
provocation and we talk until the stars switch off
and the crazy cat the catnip one howls
pass me the broom let me sweep up the crushed-glass
dust and silver wrappers of these evenings and
talk to me as we make eggs and drink the coffee
about the faces reflected and the way our sandals moved
in the gravel of my backyard I will not tire
of these people not for a long time they
make the work of living a relief and welcome charge
the happiest of undertakings please come
in leave your bags inside my door
CDL
candle wax in the cushions to rub out also
the trash to leave on the sidewalk as the sun rises
pale eggshells and strongsmelling coffee grounds
you are the refuse of summer nights
and you the folding of blankets into rectangles and
the gathering of empty winedark bottles with your labels you
are tasks I gladly take up because it is impossible to
stay anxious at the orchestration of these evenings
when the visitors dance so easily at the slightest
provocation and we talk until the stars switch off
and the crazy cat the catnip one howls
pass me the broom let me sweep up the crushed-glass
dust and silver wrappers of these evenings and
talk to me as we make eggs and drink the coffee
about the faces reflected and the way our sandals moved
in the gravel of my backyard I will not tire
of these people not for a long time they
make the work of living a relief and welcome charge
the happiest of undertakings please come
in leave your bags inside my door
CDL
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
A Day at the Races
Day spins in my head like
a dropped penny on the
hall downstairs.
We ride miles to see Ellie row
and miles more
to sleep here,
where generations have slept
before us, dusty books and swords
and New Yorkers from 1999
(dinner made me laugh:
maitre d' asked if we'd like more
codfish balls).
On the dusky drive Dad
talks society in that timbre
he gets here, in this outcropping beyond
even the ever-farther
clean-cut world of paunchy
parents in polos and khakis,
binoculars, baseball caps, high
socks, spandex,
shiny wooden boats.
There Ellie won a gold and they left everything
on that water strength of will and
strength of arms, muscled and tan.
A place illuminating, sometimes--I found myself
incandescent, sunburnt
firecrackerpinwheelspinning to see
the boys (muscled, tan)-- to
see those friends again
after what seems so long, but
as the familiar night
flits past the car window I remember Tom
today has that
same smell he did
once, the first time
I let myself sleep
on a boy's shoulder.
Time travel over water, in water, on
water. Mommy says I'll always be
her baby. Summer days
ahead, beckon. Remind me:
I would like to sound the depths
of everything I think I know. And
row, and row again, oarlocks
clunking in watery time and spray.
CVP
a dropped penny on the
hall downstairs.
We ride miles to see Ellie row
and miles more
to sleep here,
where generations have slept
before us, dusty books and swords
and New Yorkers from 1999
(dinner made me laugh:
maitre d' asked if we'd like more
codfish balls).
On the dusky drive Dad
talks society in that timbre
he gets here, in this outcropping beyond
even the ever-farther
clean-cut world of paunchy
parents in polos and khakis,
binoculars, baseball caps, high
socks, spandex,
shiny wooden boats.
There Ellie won a gold and they left everything
on that water strength of will and
strength of arms, muscled and tan.
A place illuminating, sometimes--I found myself
incandescent, sunburnt
firecrackerpinwheelspinning to see
the boys (muscled, tan)-- to
see those friends again
after what seems so long, but
as the familiar night
flits past the car window I remember Tom
today has that
same smell he did
once, the first time
I let myself sleep
on a boy's shoulder.
Time travel over water, in water, on
water. Mommy says I'll always be
her baby. Summer days
ahead, beckon. Remind me:
I would like to sound the depths
of everything I think I know. And
row, and row again, oarlocks
clunking in watery time and spray.
CVP
Sticky Note from SML, May 9th
summer thunderstorms-
seems strange to be in a
library right now, with the
sky a white slate filled up
on invisible rain-
but i can still draw on it,
talk with ellie, feel reverberations
of deerfield days and
a boy and a balcony,
more summer rain
and poets,
wendell berry, "all that descends
must ascend again
unseen in thought light
and day light"
just like this rain, just like
the tickle of the year ending.
as brenna says, can we
just acknowledge the
elements
right now?
CVP
seems strange to be in a
library right now, with the
sky a white slate filled up
on invisible rain-
but i can still draw on it,
talk with ellie, feel reverberations
of deerfield days and
a boy and a balcony,
more summer rain
and poets,
wendell berry, "all that descends
must ascend again
unseen in thought light
and day light"
just like this rain, just like
the tickle of the year ending.
as brenna says, can we
just acknowledge the
elements
right now?
CVP
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Breach
I see a border
slim, distinct,
between warmth and cold.
It keeps me.
Here
in the warmth my body builds
in stagnancy.
Radiating
onto this
emily-shaped area of bed these
emily-embracing folds of blankets,
so that I remain
motionless, I stay
here.
Outside this, my cocoon,
I sense the disturbing fresh,
jarring.
I feel warmth in
my mother’s arms and
these noises shuffling speaking playing
these walls
that view
that run and those
pillows.
Beyond lies
the cold of an introduction,
chilly emptiness of small-talk and
the shiver of dullness day-to-day.
me-carved indent.
It takes a while to become comfortable in
someplace new.
To inhabit cold,
and make it warm, too.
EWV
Mon rêve
Last night I dreamt it was both the first
and the last day of school
Old Campus was awash with light
Movement, action
And when I saw you it took a moment to realize
Just what it meant
So simple, your silent smile
Illuminated more truly in your green eyes
I walked up. "Bonjour," like always
"Bonjour," you smiled. (Not mocking, just amused, I think)
I didn't say anything to anyone
But eventually someone mentioned they had talked to you
And what a great conversation it was.
Ashamed at my measly "bonjour," I tried to follow you
Out.
Through Phelps, College St was covered in scaffolding and concrete barriers
Nicolas and I, soon joined by Cora
Always just behind you
We joined the river on Chapel
And soon moved past you.
I heard the sounds, but didn't believe
Until there they were, behind blue tarps and police tape
The Knife, playing your song
Because it's about goodbye and thankyou
And everyone knew
And was there for you
The last thing I saw was you crying, softly
Why didn't I give you a hug?
LIL
and the last day of school
Old Campus was awash with light
Movement, action
And when I saw you it took a moment to realize
Just what it meant
So simple, your silent smile
Illuminated more truly in your green eyes
I walked up. "Bonjour," like always
"Bonjour," you smiled. (Not mocking, just amused, I think)
I didn't say anything to anyone
But eventually someone mentioned they had talked to you
And what a great conversation it was.
Ashamed at my measly "bonjour," I tried to follow you
Out.
Through Phelps, College St was covered in scaffolding and concrete barriers
Nicolas and I, soon joined by Cora
Always just behind you
We joined the river on Chapel
And soon moved past you.
I heard the sounds, but didn't believe
Until there they were, behind blue tarps and police tape
The Knife, playing your song
Because it's about goodbye and thankyou
And everyone knew
And was there for you
The last thing I saw was you crying, softly
Why didn't I give you a hug?
LIL
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Dream about You (IV)
The dream about you felt like flying. There were
birds chirping on the branches in the midday sun when
I awoke from my nap in the dream. I was on a hammock,
and you were rocking me to their song. I think
you were no longer you when I awoke
from my nap in the dream.
Something blue happened.
Something maybe like a lizard’s tongue
flickering around for food, or to feel the air.
Will it rain? the tongue asked. We went inside, you
who were not you and I. The hammock
would be sundered by the lightning and dissolve
in its fire. The birds would fly away
like in a ballet. Little silk worms had sown
your hammock, and it would no longer
hold my immense weight.
So we started writing in books, old, musty books
with soft bindings and black spines. Their thick
leather pages were worn, as if flipped through
forever, but there were no words. Our pencils
would not mark, but we scribbled furiously, trying
to race above the rain and thunder.
—EWW
birds chirping on the branches in the midday sun when
I awoke from my nap in the dream. I was on a hammock,
and you were rocking me to their song. I think
you were no longer you when I awoke
from my nap in the dream.
Something blue happened.
Something maybe like a lizard’s tongue
flickering around for food, or to feel the air.
Will it rain? the tongue asked. We went inside, you
who were not you and I. The hammock
would be sundered by the lightning and dissolve
in its fire. The birds would fly away
like in a ballet. Little silk worms had sown
your hammock, and it would no longer
hold my immense weight.
So we started writing in books, old, musty books
with soft bindings and black spines. Their thick
leather pages were worn, as if flipped through
forever, but there were no words. Our pencils
would not mark, but we scribbled furiously, trying
to race above the rain and thunder.
—EWW
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Dream about You (III)
The dream about you
tingled my spine. I
sat up in my sleep
as if with brains
fried by the electric
current of the
executioner’s chair.
—EWW
tingled my spine. I
sat up in my sleep
as if with brains
fried by the electric
current of the
executioner’s chair.
—EWW
Sunday, May 16, 2010
May 16
Today is a golden-gauze day
with worn beach-stones and three kinds of light:
the light in the paintings;
deep, cold shade;
and the brightest kind of light,
which makes every place indoors seem
like the inside of your eyes
for minutes at a time.
I am home and made from the light.
I am glad to hide in newspaper-pages,
deep in the garden fern-leaves,
from motherly rebuke and sisterly inquiring.
I drink my coffee black and wonder at
the world calamities: a deep-sea spill
miles beneath the barnacled ship-bellies,
belches toxic waste, and a volcano explodes,
as it has for some time,
flicking ash into the atmosphere
to lick the sides of silver-plated planes.
From my perch, among homey welcome
and close-keeping, it all seems positively
prehistoric.
CDL
with worn beach-stones and three kinds of light:
the light in the paintings;
deep, cold shade;
and the brightest kind of light,
which makes every place indoors seem
like the inside of your eyes
for minutes at a time.
I am home and made from the light.
I am glad to hide in newspaper-pages,
deep in the garden fern-leaves,
from motherly rebuke and sisterly inquiring.
I drink my coffee black and wonder at
the world calamities: a deep-sea spill
miles beneath the barnacled ship-bellies,
belches toxic waste, and a volcano explodes,
as it has for some time,
flicking ash into the atmosphere
to lick the sides of silver-plated planes.
From my perch, among homey welcome
and close-keeping, it all seems positively
prehistoric.
CDL
Saturday, May 15, 2010
The Dream about You (II)
The dream about you
is thick. It
hovers in the air that touches
your fingernails, your hairs.
Your ambition and
beauty is caught in
that air. They are
a little blue, like
the mist atop a
lake in early morning.
—EWW
Friday, May 14, 2010
May 14th
My thoughts are
coins collected in an aluminum can
jangling clattering noise
the slow accumulation of
next-to-nothings
emptied out over breakfast conversation
worth little more
than the paltry contents of a smug tip
left after the check is paid.
EWV
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Home at last
How do you make her your girlfriend, William?
At recess, you take her behind a tree and ask her.
He
nuzzled my nose and
asked me to stay
wrapped his arms and smiled
I willingly pretended it was a goodnight hug
not a trap to keep me there
on his mat beside our parents bed
in the warmth of that golden room
covered in dirty paw-prints
(this room is beautiful
I love this room
I mean that)
Yes, he said, just hugging you
a hug all-night-long
and we laugh at his trick
before I tug myself away to bed
Love is so simple here
I'd like a boy to take me behind a tree and
ask me.
EWV
Saturday, May 8, 2010
The Dream about You (I)
The dream about you
left me sleeping. I
can’t remember a word you said
or that was said
about you. Or even
anything I did. I think
you were wearing
pink pajama bottoms
and a bra on top of
that blue shirt.
—EWW
left me sleeping. I
can’t remember a word you said
or that was said
about you. Or even
anything I did. I think
you were wearing
pink pajama bottoms
and a bra on top of
that blue shirt.
—EWW
still taking still taking; time
throw me a couple
of unnumbered days
without a calculus
of minutes
and bells
for every new
venture.
i'm in an abusive relationship
with time.
she's uncovered
my white lies,
fixated on
my fudged
second sticks,
exposed
the lines i blurred.
she beats me
now-
methodically,
with her hands
every night.
my brain gets heavy
flipping the pages,
watching the numbers
fly by
(envisioning with undeniable
hubris
the words, smiles, and furrowed brows
that await [?]
me)
.
DLS
of unnumbered days
without a calculus
of minutes
and bells
for every new
venture.
i'm in an abusive relationship
with time.
she's uncovered
my white lies,
fixated on
my fudged
second sticks,
exposed
the lines i blurred.
she beats me
now-
methodically,
with her hands
every night.
my brain gets heavy
flipping the pages,
watching the numbers
fly by
(envisioning with undeniable
hubris
the words, smiles, and furrowed brows
that await [?]
me)
.
DLS
Not Mine
Professor Deming would be proud of
this intertextuality
adoption of written legacy iterated
at least four times over the
Americanexperiment,
Whitman WIlliams Gizzi
me, illuminated by these words:
"...
A bridge expands over foliage.
The river dappled
With wind and speed
And the sensation of night.
Thrown back your head
To the milky tears.
All types and shapes
Of silent light.
Here the crab, the bear,
The dipper, the wheel
And the little tightnesses
That keep us wanting.
The wanting that keeps us
Looking hard into the dark.
The dark we hope to unpack
And move into
That one day
We might find ourselves lit up."
Peter Gizzi, "The Outernationale"
Perfect lines for packing/unpacking
moving out/in
ternational travel and summer nights
of constellations reflected cross
the sky
CVP
this intertextuality
adoption of written legacy iterated
at least four times over the
Americanexperiment,
Whitman WIlliams Gizzi
me, illuminated by these words:
"...
A bridge expands over foliage.
The river dappled
With wind and speed
And the sensation of night.
Thrown back your head
To the milky tears.
All types and shapes
Of silent light.
Here the crab, the bear,
The dipper, the wheel
And the little tightnesses
That keep us wanting.
The wanting that keeps us
Looking hard into the dark.
The dark we hope to unpack
And move into
That one day
We might find ourselves lit up."
Peter Gizzi, "The Outernationale"
Perfect lines for packing/unpacking
moving out/in
ternational travel and summer nights
of constellations reflected cross
the sky
CVP
Thursday, May 6, 2010
EXAM
I was given a certain amount of time today and asked to please
write about imaginary shades of blue.
I wrote about hawks
with yellow talons and soft brown feathers
near rough cliffs.
And lambs, poor things.
Ravens, also, their
feathers look more like oil
or tar.
I wrote about sheets
of smooth white paper (in my head, and later,
they turned into sheets on a bed,
with bodies in between them).
CDL
write about imaginary shades of blue.
I wrote about hawks
with yellow talons and soft brown feathers
near rough cliffs.
And lambs, poor things.
Ravens, also, their
feathers look more like oil
or tar.
I wrote about sheets
of smooth white paper (in my head, and later,
they turned into sheets on a bed,
with bodies in between them).
CDL
thoughts while cleaning a desk
I think I know why I shall never be a philosopher it’s because
I’m not very good at taking notes the way that philosophers would I get
too distracted by lines I think should go in poems like these ones see
here are my notes on Kierkegaard take a look they’re very neat but
not at all helpful, mostly about other people:
NOTES ON KIERKEGAARD’S PHILOSOPHY FOR THE FINAL EXAM
“cold and clammy mollusk” -
do not become this.
reasons people travel the world:
(1) rivers and mountains
(2) birds of rare plumage
(3) queerly deformed fishes
(4) ridiculous breeds of men
what a mother must do to make her breast look less than delicious:
blacken it.
the knight of faith may have a wife,
she may be making him dinner,
she may be making him:
“a calf’s head, roasted, garnished with vegetables”
things Abraham had to do before sacrificing Isaac:
(1) cleave wood
(2) bind Isaac
(3) sharpen knife
what Isaac saw: “his left hand clenched in despair”
what Shakespeare can express:
“everything,
absolutely
everything,
precisely as
it
is”
CDL
I’m not very good at taking notes the way that philosophers would I get
too distracted by lines I think should go in poems like these ones see
here are my notes on Kierkegaard take a look they’re very neat but
not at all helpful, mostly about other people:
NOTES ON KIERKEGAARD’S PHILOSOPHY FOR THE FINAL EXAM
“cold and clammy mollusk” -
do not become this.
reasons people travel the world:
(1) rivers and mountains
(2) birds of rare plumage
(3) queerly deformed fishes
(4) ridiculous breeds of men
what a mother must do to make her breast look less than delicious:
blacken it.
the knight of faith may have a wife,
she may be making him dinner,
she may be making him:
“a calf’s head, roasted, garnished with vegetables”
things Abraham had to do before sacrificing Isaac:
(1) cleave wood
(2) bind Isaac
(3) sharpen knife
what Isaac saw: “his left hand clenched in despair”
what Shakespeare can express:
“everything,
absolutely
everything,
precisely as
it
is”
CDL
universal declaration of human
rights/writing/rite of passage
words will free you,
if you choose them right.
DLS
games and roofs
the afternoon shine
marked the time
for hide and seek.
the breeze tapped my shoulder,
but i waved my pages back:
women in cameroon
are left
when they can't have children,
and i need to know that.
the sun tickled my face, but
half of high achieving women
are childless by midlife.
that's scary, you know.
the floating flowers
giggled on their way,
most of teenage pregnancies
are planned, too,
because it's the only
opportunity
for meaning in their lives.
did i ever think--
fine. just for a minute,
because
social constructs around race
make transnational adoptions
tricky
and i should know
and i should think--
i lifted my eyes,
the sun ducked behind you,
and you became a silhouette,
an outline,
a shadow of the lines
and crumpled paper
and pounded desks.
you let it peak through, though.
it exploded behind you,
and its vague blob
of light
dispersed
into concentrated lines
racing to every corner
of the sky and roof.
i had to squint
and i couldn't even see the source.
but you saw it all,
didn't you?
you obscured and refracted
its rays,
slowed them
through prisms,
so you could go faster.
never mind you and your maker,
i want to meet mine!
I jump up your walls
smudging my feet against
your concrete,
chimneying in between
your crooks,
throwing myself into a dinosaur
jump in between your gap,
scratching my hands
on your brutal
rigids,
scrambling higher and higher
until my books are dots
and the cars are motion
and the faces lose eyes,
and i'm breathless now
but the only way is up,
because
going down is scary and
the sun's still hiding,
and i'm still seeking
and you're still obstructing,
so climb higher
my dearest
until there's no more.
DLS
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
transformation
add me up I'm an algorithm
I'm a jazz rhythm
I'm a jazz beat
I'm beaten
beat me, I'm two eggs
and flour and sugar I'm a cake! eat me up I
taste good
like chemistry, vanilla
and a change of heart
CDL
I'm a jazz rhythm
I'm a jazz beat
I'm beaten
beat me, I'm two eggs
and flour and sugar I'm a cake! eat me up I
taste good
like chemistry, vanilla
and a change of heart
CDL
night poem #2
I stayed up all night trying to prove free will exists.
I kept my light on, one lamp, and window open.
Irrational emotion and passionate feelings knocked
on my door but I was busy at my desk and asked
them politely to please come back later. They
drank tea in the common room, talked for a while,
before descending the five flights.
Nonsense, absurdity, the unknown called me
on the telephone, each in turn - but my roommate
was asleep, snoring softly, so I had to excuse
myself: So sorry, can't talk, very busy.
Love, the divine, god climbed in through
my window. They sat on my bed and read my notes,
picking leaves and twigs out of each other's hair
and laughing. They'd climbed the tree, they told me.
I bent my head and pretended not to hear. They climbed
down the way they came in.
Art and literature had been in my closet. I went to get
dressed this morning and found them, embracing
between my winter coat and least favorite sun dress. I
took my jacket off its hanger without disturbing them.
They'd fallen asleep.
This afternoon I saw her, asleep in the courtyard.
She was taking a nap, her head supported by a pile of books,
her clothes rumpled, but her face serene.
I yawned and rubbed my eyesand figured we'd bump into each other one of these days.
Exams are so busy for everyone, she must be overwhelmed.
CDL
I kept my light on, one lamp, and window open.
Irrational emotion and passionate feelings knocked
on my door but I was busy at my desk and asked
them politely to please come back later. They
drank tea in the common room, talked for a while,
before descending the five flights.
Nonsense, absurdity, the unknown called me
on the telephone, each in turn - but my roommate
was asleep, snoring softly, so I had to excuse
myself: So sorry, can't talk, very busy.
Love, the divine, god climbed in through
my window. They sat on my bed and read my notes,
picking leaves and twigs out of each other's hair
and laughing. They'd climbed the tree, they told me.
I bent my head and pretended not to hear. They climbed
down the way they came in.
Art and literature had been in my closet. I went to get
dressed this morning and found them, embracing
between my winter coat and least favorite sun dress. I
took my jacket off its hanger without disturbing them.
They'd fallen asleep.
This afternoon I saw her, asleep in the courtyard.
She was taking a nap, her head supported by a pile of books,
her clothes rumpled, but her face serene.
I yawned and rubbed my eyesand figured we'd bump into each other one of these days.
Exams are so busy for everyone, she must be overwhelmed.
CDL
night poem #1
I heard a story today about a man
who worked in ports with his hands and on
docks he took ships to all the places where he knew
there would be eclipses
then he grew up and, I imagine,
sold his shells and wampum, washed
the sea water from his hair,
learned to tie a tie and walk on land
he teaches algebra now, and very few
of his high school students, who sit in rows,
can see the milky remnants of each eclipse
in the corners of his eyes
I look for it in check-out cashiers and newspaper-stand owners
sometimes. Sometimes they blink at me or nod,
or wipe away a grain of moon sand,
or tuck a strand of ocean weed behind her ear.
CDL
who worked in ports with his hands and on
docks he took ships to all the places where he knew
there would be eclipses
then he grew up and, I imagine,
sold his shells and wampum, washed
the sea water from his hair,
learned to tie a tie and walk on land
he teaches algebra now, and very few
of his high school students, who sit in rows,
can see the milky remnants of each eclipse
in the corners of his eyes
I look for it in check-out cashiers and newspaper-stand owners
sometimes. Sometimes they blink at me or nod,
or wipe away a grain of moon sand,
or tuck a strand of ocean weed behind her ear.
CDL
day poem
I wake up late and too warm kick off the blankets open the window
and see three messages
one says "cake! where are you?" more or less so I respond
to that one it's the happiest
and stand beneath some cold water
and braid my hair
and talk about philosophy for an hour
a girl tells me she kissed a boy last night
and we act like girls once did for a few blocks before remembering
we're modern and don't care
and straighten up
our laughter hides
we go to lunch with friends and pay $5 apiece
and then it rains and suns at the same timeand we walk discussing nakedness and things our parents did
I sit in a courtyard reading Spanish phrases
and brushing seeds off pages
and arguing about what is good luck
(bird shit I say, you're skeptical)
at dinner it's morality, peanut butter baked goods, what age we should get married
then the German language department and I look
at the records of serious, purple Schoenberg. someone put him in a box.
we pick our favorites from the magazine until everyone else leaves
I call my mother and her voice sounds like the breezeher best friend from college still hasn't sold
her mystery novels I should make those appointments
have I yet I haven't
I sit on a bench with one of you, quietly
I walk around in the night, alone, buy myself a free iced coffee
but it's too warm in my room still, the day too flawed
novels never sleep I realize at novel-reading hour
I check their spines and sure enough they're faking it, all of them
CDL
and see three messages
one says "cake! where are you?" more or less so I respond
to that one it's the happiest
and stand beneath some cold water
and braid my hair
and talk about philosophy for an hour
a girl tells me she kissed a boy last night
and we act like girls once did for a few blocks before remembering
we're modern and don't care
and straighten up
our laughter hides
we go to lunch with friends and pay $5 apiece
and then it rains and suns at the same timeand we walk discussing nakedness and things our parents did
I sit in a courtyard reading Spanish phrases
and brushing seeds off pages
and arguing about what is good luck
(bird shit I say, you're skeptical)
at dinner it's morality, peanut butter baked goods, what age we should get married
then the German language department and I look
at the records of serious, purple Schoenberg. someone put him in a box.
we pick our favorites from the magazine until everyone else leaves
I call my mother and her voice sounds like the breezeher best friend from college still hasn't sold
her mystery novels I should make those appointments
have I yet I haven't
I sit on a bench with one of you, quietly
I walk around in the night, alone, buy myself a free iced coffee
but it's too warm in my room still, the day too flawed
novels never sleep I realize at novel-reading hour
I check their spines and sure enough they're faking it, all of them
CDL
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Circles for May
How perfect that
the year, the time, the
new life that began with
a run, a talk, giddy
sprinklers at 2 am and
expression of melting
infatuation--
so ends, or, really,
renews its next round with
a run, some talk, giddy
sprinklers at 2 am and
new infatuation slipping
between spoonfuls of
melting ice cream.
In between it seems I
have ridden that road
wrapping round east rock
with the regular rhythm of
breathing--
but tonight, I ran,
exam adrenaline racing and
releasing only when
New Haven lay before
us, reflected light, or a
sigh of a city, a mirage,
maybe, Gotham softened
by the sea. Every path
sighed summer smells,
sweat and silky night
perfume, flowers I will
put in my hair and wear even
if not one can see,
No one can see the path
ahead and watchman,
what of the night? what of
it, I say no more sleep, just
sprinklers,please, and
spoons of softened
Ben and Jerry's, and more
sprinklers, and showers, and
summer.
CVP
the year, the time, the
new life that began with
a run, a talk, giddy
sprinklers at 2 am and
expression of melting
infatuation--
so ends, or, really,
renews its next round with
a run, some talk, giddy
sprinklers at 2 am and
new infatuation slipping
between spoonfuls of
melting ice cream.
In between it seems I
have ridden that road
wrapping round east rock
with the regular rhythm of
breathing--
but tonight, I ran,
exam adrenaline racing and
releasing only when
New Haven lay before
us, reflected light, or a
sigh of a city, a mirage,
maybe, Gotham softened
by the sea. Every path
sighed summer smells,
sweat and silky night
perfume, flowers I will
put in my hair and wear even
if not one can see,
No one can see the path
ahead and watchman,
what of the night? what of
it, I say no more sleep, just
sprinklers,please, and
spoons of softened
Ben and Jerry's, and more
sprinklers, and showers, and
summer.
CVP
Monday, May 3, 2010
"The man who knew too much" (As much an homage as an allusion)
Why'd you have to go and leave?
Maybe I rely on you too much
Maybe I just really fucking want to believe
In something
How I wish/
Wish you were here
A thousand unsent letters
A million unwept tears
Did they watch you die too
Look at you with those huge eyes
Did you read yourself into them?
I didn't want to write this about you
I wanted it to write it about me, about us
About how I can't move forward because I'm stuck
looking back
Didn't that ever torture you?
What was your favorite color? What did it look like?
What did it feel like?
You make me want to be 'from' Ohio
Flat, boring
authentic, whatever the fuck that means
You said you did it so that others wouldn't be lonely
But I've never felt more alone, now
that you're gone.
Because I felt, I feel, like it's just you and me.
I know the rest of them are out there
In their apartments
With their magazines
And shows,
and words (your words too, but never the same)
I spent my whole life wanting to be them
And then I met you
And now I am them, thanks to you.
But so were you, partly.
So what gives? What's the difference?
Why, and how did you get it, and how do I get it?
"Hundreds of thousands of pages of continental philosophy"
But that didn't get you anywhere.
You rejected the rejecters.
So I do too-but only because you did first.
I can't write what you write,
I can't be what you (are),
I can't do what you do
I'm not any better, now.
It's not any clearer.
My parents hate you for what you do, and
What you did.
But this isn't an act of rebellion. It's an act of adoration,
Which has itself died, along with every other 'real' thing,
thanks to people like you
Because it doesn't fucking mean anything anymore
Because someone did it already, and all we can do is sit
in our apartments
and read our magazines
and smirk
comment
and smirk and comment at our
smirking and commenting.
Fuck you for doing this to me
Fuck you for not sticking around to explain it any better
I can't do it by myself, and no one else
cares.
(If they do, they care about caring
Which I know you would have loved to hate)
LIL
Maybe I rely on you too much
Maybe I just really fucking want to believe
In something
How I wish/
Wish you were here
A thousand unsent letters
A million unwept tears
Did they watch you die too
Look at you with those huge eyes
Did you read yourself into them?
I didn't want to write this about you
I wanted it to write it about me, about us
About how I can't move forward because I'm stuck
looking back
Didn't that ever torture you?
What was your favorite color? What did it look like?
What did it feel like?
You make me want to be 'from' Ohio
Flat, boring
authentic, whatever the fuck that means
You said you did it so that others wouldn't be lonely
But I've never felt more alone, now
that you're gone.
Because I felt, I feel, like it's just you and me.
I know the rest of them are out there
In their apartments
With their magazines
And shows,
and words (your words too, but never the same)
I spent my whole life wanting to be them
And then I met you
And now I am them, thanks to you.
But so were you, partly.
So what gives? What's the difference?
Why, and how did you get it, and how do I get it?
"Hundreds of thousands of pages of continental philosophy"
But that didn't get you anywhere.
You rejected the rejecters.
So I do too-but only because you did first.
I can't write what you write,
I can't be what you (are),
I can't do what you do
I'm not any better, now.
It's not any clearer.
My parents hate you for what you do, and
What you did.
But this isn't an act of rebellion. It's an act of adoration,
Which has itself died, along with every other 'real' thing,
thanks to people like you
Because it doesn't fucking mean anything anymore
Because someone did it already, and all we can do is sit
in our apartments
and read our magazines
and smirk
comment
and smirk and comment at our
smirking and commenting.
Fuck you for doing this to me
Fuck you for not sticking around to explain it any better
I can't do it by myself, and no one else
cares.
(If they do, they care about caring
Which I know you would have loved to hate)
LIL
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