Archive for June, 2009

evolution

i fall from the sky

a pebble ground into fine grains

just add water

my two legs stretched out across oceans

the moon is my cratered compass

i am blind with a devotion so deep

i cannot reach it

my knees buckle

the earth crumbles like cake below my feet

my vocal cords throb with song

there is no silence strong enough

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June 30, 2009 at 2:00 pm Leave a comment

baby blues

Why wouldn’t they take her flowers? Everybody loves roses. Everybody except for them, sitting at their tables, sipping lattes and biting into low-fat cream cheese muffins. She knew the way they looked at her. The contempt, annoyance, pity. She didn’t need their pity. What she needed was for them to take a fucking rose. How hard was that?

There, in the back. A young man with a goatee. A girl, blond, smiling doe-eyed. Were they in love? Like she was once. God, that was a long time ago. The girl won’t look at her. Not interested. Of course not. She wasn’t interested in anything either at that age. Until the doctor told her she was pregnant. Then everything changed. Everything became real important. Just like that.

She wasn’t always like this. She had a job once. OK, it wasn’t much, a receptionist. But she met people. Had friends. Men looked at her, thought her pretty. Women asked her when her baby was due and she’d tell them and they would smile and tell her how radiant she was. Rick was excited too. He built a crib, painted the room blue, with yellow smiling stars. She didn’t want to know the baby’s gender. She wanted it to be a surprise. They practiced pronouncing different names at night. Miles, like Miles Davis, said Rick. But what if it’s a girl? Olivia. That was her pick. She didn’t know any Olivias, other than the one on Law and Order: SVU. But she liked the ring of it. The way it reminded her of classy cocktail parties.

She gave birth to Olivia in a hospital bed on a Sunday morning, one month premature.  She held her in her arms, and Rick took pictures. Such a quiet baby, big brown eyes and a faint smile. Her hands. How small her hands were. Then, one cool October morning, she got out of bed, walked to Olivia’s room, and Olivia wasn’t breathing. She was three months old. They buried her quietly. And quietly drifted apart. Rick worked so hard he had no time to come home anymore. He found an apartment that was closer to the office, told her it was for the best. They both needed to move on. She thought: how can you want to move on? Don’t you need to be somewhere before you can move to somewhere else?

Every Sunday she went to the corner store, bought three roses and made her way to the graveyard. She took the old, wilted ones out of the glass jar, tried to give them away on her way back. If she could only get rid of them, she thought, everything would be OK again. She stopped in at her favorite coffee shop. But they wouldn’t help her, these people with their cell phones, laptops and mochas. They didn’t want her flowers, just like Olivia didn’t want the life she tried to give her. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave,” said the cafe owner. So she did. She went into the streets, looked for mothers with babies, held out the half-dead flowers. But they pretended they didn’t see her. They pretended that it was all her fault. She killed her baby. That’s what they thought. She could see it in the way they hustled by her.

Every evening she returned to the graveyard. She sat next to the tombstone, the glass jar, the wilting flowers. Sometimes she told stories. Sometimes she hummed a lullaby. She thought she could hear her breathing. Olivia. But when she called her name, everything went silent. Just like that.

June 29, 2009 at 2:08 pm Leave a comment

i have no use for poets

i have no use for poetry

no respect for the sickly self-obsession

of so-called poets

what do they know

of love

of living?

they spend their hours

hiding behind syllables

and ill-conceived commas

such as, this one

and because they cannot justify

its existence

they pretend that a voice of God

told them to place it there

no, i have no use for poets

and their sickly self-obsessed rhymes

what do they know

of life

of love

what do they know

when the pen falls from their fingers

and the computer screen dims?

June 28, 2009 at 5:14 am 2 comments

it’s morning

My back arched precariously

muscles taught

I sit legs outstretched

under my duvet cover

it’s morning

Thursday morning

i repeat this like a mantra

try to empty my head

of the foggy somnia

that envelopes it

my stomach growls

like a hungry beast

waiting

for the hunt for almond milk

cereal flakes

or if it’s lucky

an omelette

did you know that the proper way to type

is with your hands floating above the keyboard

the balls not touching

I’m not very proper

There is no knowing

what i feel

but that i feel is undeniable

attested to by the oiliness of my skin

the product of an anxiety

caused by my very existence

on this earth

I put aside my insecurities

forget to remember to feel

tense when I walk into work

today is a day

i will seek out my own joy

i will not drift into waves

too deep for me

June 27, 2009 at 8:52 pm Leave a comment

mouth

it drools

over the tenderness of bread

the charcoal smell of meat

the mayonnaise, tomatoes, lettuce, cheese

cheese

it licks itself

waits for hands to lift them closer

so it can open

teeth readied like sharpened swords

to bite down

like a tired head sinking into pillow

what it wants is simple

flavours spreading along the tongue’s razor edge

to the back of the throat

where a swallow waits to bring closure

June 26, 2009 at 5:53 pm Leave a comment

feet

they scramble out of bed

climb into a mountain of clothing

sweat their way into shoes

slip toward the door

they have wings that carry them

clumsily

they crunch into the sidewalk

witness the world from below

June 26, 2009 at 5:46 pm Leave a comment

the pen

i wrap myself around

your strong exterior

hold you tight

let you rest against my hand

like a child

you are not my enemy

you are the conclusion

you and the paper you press against

where you outline trace amounts

of meaning

breadcrumbs to the soul

June 26, 2009 at 5:35 pm Leave a comment

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