poems

31 July 2012

#134: Poem Begun Yesterday


For Hannah

Boy, were we chaste. I did
this and that thing sans choice. But
word suck when I want to
thank you actually, & do it
better & without them so it’s clear
how much stands undiscovered.
You stand lemony in me. He
will or will fail to learn. Boy was
that not about fairness.
Kinder would be not to ask is
the advice. Don’t wait or bank
on type for smack-lip satisfaction;
the wood door draped around the
key – our bitter urban
scent of used material picked up
a scene of the next workplace,
standing in and of new trees.

26 July 2012

Tinctae*

You, I said, blue stars at dawn as they fade. Morning storms shrivel as you, stiff legged, take wet bites of smoke. Black-eyed you slink the progression of shadows while still blind stars, immediate dawn, licked tear ducts, I said, lymph nodes, wrung out, white-mouthed – and you stay stars at dawn, even to strangers. No one will miss the fuming.





* tinct.ae, Latin.
 VPAR   3 1 NOM P F PERF PASSIVE PPL tinct.ae
> tingo, tingere, tinxi, tinctus  V   [XXXAO]
> tinguo, tinguere, tinxi, tinctus  V   [XXXAO]
wet/moisten/dip/soak; color/dye/tinge/tint, stain (w/blood); imbue; impregnate;

24 July 2012

I am a new way of moving
energy around, "monkey offers
peach," confused but unopinionated,
another nervous drone.

22 July 2012

#133: Sunday

Someone does
kitchen dishes,
morning coughing.

Shrewd, she chewed
gum last night,
barely drank or kissed.

A dead dog woke
her up, smearing the
dream with black liner.

She coughs, but
none sounds like
it will be last.

Whistling, she strokes
the high kettle;
"I know, I know."

12 July 2012

Wave to the Train

The same train bays from Sacramento
in our houses, but in yours it is closer.
An unforeseen shake-up, says control,
hurts oversight. My body hurts and I don't want to stress it with making poetry. Making is effortful and I'm not even awake really. The coffee dehydrates before it kicks. Reading Bly only makes me more depressed about my political ignorance. Is that knowledge, that I know to be depressed? Or that I know ignorance. If I had the interest wouldn't I get informed? Yesterday my shelter dog turned seven and 7-11 served free mini Slurpees and unlimited refills. Hearing the train caught in the ivy fence behind my kitchen conjures what might be an earliest memory, toddlerhood summer at Powerhouse Park by the ocean on 15th Street, being up in the tree with parents' arms locked beneath me like nets, batting and crying to the passing Coaster. It stopped in Solana Beach and continued south somewhere weekdays around 4, when we went to the park. I made my first friends there and learned to climb trees. The drawling horn sent out many rich tones at once and it was happy-pain loud, the blast like tunnel wind. Then the red bars would blink back to neutral and opened the split roads to beach traffic. We could get pizza from Del Mar Pizza or parents could get beer from Americana. I feel lazy and unfulfilled when my tries at poems stall and self-absorbed half-memories leak out like soreness from lax muscles. There was nothing Bly-sad about Powerhouse Park in the 1990s except leaving it when I watched other kids have tantrums and resolved to be well-behaved for my parents.

06 July 2012

There are new green and brown bottles at the window
and little prayer flags strung up the door over a sari.
The mattress sleeps sadly by piles of clothes.
A man picks apart the recycling and pockets his choice.
Sunday is when I will install a new bed.