Dog and Poetry Show

Murderer (Slam Version)

Sat, 14 Jan 2012 01:22:37 -0500

As the title says, this is the slam version. The full version is twice as long, but I don’t think it’s clean enough for posting yet. Anyway, this is probably my best poem. I hope you enjoy it.

Before I met you, I was an art thief-
the best. There wasn’t a portrait
I couldn’t plunder. I had plucked
a harem’s worth of works
and sold them to collectors
for fortunes.

But then I saw her- the Venus de Milo-
and her visage washed over me.
She was the purest form of beauty
that I, a former art thief
and freshly baptized romantic, could behold.
Though she had no arms,
her smile beckoned me,
so I stole her for myself.

I loved the Venus de Milo.
I carried her everywhere.
My back was her throne,
and my arms were growing so, so strong.
Push and pull became painless,
but the bigger my biceps became,
the smaller Milo’s smile grew.
I figured she might be envious,
so we thought about getting her some arms,
and painted ourselves a plan.

Every time I saw a cute girl,
one whose arms looked like
they could fit Milo, I played romance.
But behind my back,
where most boys hide
an erection and an exit strategy,
I held a handsaw.
It was so sharp at first.
And when I had trapped these
girls in shadows,
when most boys would try
to remove their clothes,
I took my tool and removed their arms.
I changed shirts too often
to notice any bloodstains,
and those secluded areas stayed dark.

My carefree amputation
became automatic,
a somnambulant pattern.
And I had to wear that blade dull
because the arms never quite stuck.
Some of them lasted
longer than others,
some of them had more time
to play with me,
but all of them eventually
grew pale and atrophied into nothing.

My arms were scarring
and Milo’s smile grew smaller still.
And I couldn’t stand it!
I just couldn’t!
I had done so much for her-
murdered so many young girls!
But she was never going to smile for me.
Hurt, I dropped Milo,
and she crumbled,
no doubt in a passive aggressive attempt
to prevent me from
picking her back up.

Before I met you,
I was addicted to out
of place and incomplete.
I was done with art, but you-
you were an artist.
You knew how to create beauty.
You won me with your ode
to the nuance of its creation,
that the process was
as admirable as the product, that
we break our backs when
we carry around our idea of beauty
everywhere we go.

I’ve since cut my arms off
so that those scarred weapons
can be replaced by soft sailboats
capable of grace.
Until they learn,
I can appreciate their innocence-
how they don’t try
to fill in girls’ blanks.
Instead, they can focus
on learning the nuance
of your unique composition,
rather than worshipping
that of an old, useless statue.

We're Surfers, not Sailors

Sat, 14 Jan 2012 01:15:37 -0500

This one is new, and still pretty rough. It takes about three minutes and thirty seconds to read, so I’m not sure if I should tighten it up and make it a slam poem, or if I should expand upon it and save it for open mics/shows. Help me figure it out!

In that sun hat and robin’s egg blue
you glowed like plutonium,
and your lips triggered fission reactions
in my baking body.
That June we bloomed so bright and hot
we thought ourselves stars,
and so turned our backs
to the philistine boards
and the bleached flags,
hoping to one-up the sunset
on its hometown catwalk.

On our paddleboat pilgrimage
we brought only a spider’s typewriter
and a bottle of wine.
I know you are no heavy drinker,
but the wine is from a time
before fences built from babyfat
were erected between the heavens
and the earth, and the bottle
is already stolen, anyway.

I know you wanted to
bring a second typewriter,
one not covered in cobwebs, but
I think we can write a better story
together than we can apart.

We are just sips in and hours out
into our trip before
your breath dances across my neck
like the seaborne mist.
As our hands abandon the typewriter,
ghosts start squeezing out
poetry and prose.
If our mouths weren’t engaged
like the shore and the waves
we might propose that those souls
belonged to the teens
we left on the beach.

Halfway through the bottle,
and I think about telling you
that I love you, but really,
I mean I love the character
I think you’ll be in the final draft.
Instead, I say,
“I love our island”,
even though we haven’t arrived yet.
I’ve been building it though, up here,
as a surprise.
I’ve got it down
to the wood huts and
the palm leaf fashion
through the next decade.

Halfway through the battle,
we fall asleep
and we wake up somewhere strange,
but it is not our island,
so we keep paddling,
and our pulse is still strong enough
to do most of the work.

Three quarters through the bottle,
and I’m already suggesting that
when we’re done,
we stuff the boat into the bottle
for novelty and maybe more.
That way, we’ll have a shield
to protect us from the elements.
Though it may be more opaque
than we’d hoped for,
I’m still confident we’re stars,
and our light can’t be
holed up like that.

When the bottle is finished,
and our boat is tucked in,
I say that now the only thing
that can hurt me
is that which can fit
through the bottle’s mouth,
and point out how the mouth
is a better fit for you
than even your robin’s egg blue,
and I say this because
there isn’t enough wine in the world
to make me blunt enough for,
“I love you.”

But that bottle becomes our island,
and it’s starting to suffocate us.
The ghosts have run out of ink,
for even they need air.

Where are we?
Even waves don’t know about this place.

So let’s go back to the coast.
Let’s go back home,
even though at home
the tides can beat up our
make up and our spines
like they were sandcastles.
That island must be
deserted for a reason.

So let’s go back.
Let’s forget escape,
and face the waves.

Me and You and Dr. Who

Sat, 10 Dec 2011 22:41:00 -0500

No, I don’t think I’ll watch Dr. Who.
Now, I’m sure you’ll be quick to cry, “hipster!”,
but please allow me to explain my decision
to opt-out of Dr. Who hysteria.

Daleks- the aliens-
those are the bad guys, right?
Well, forgive me if I don’t think
our problems are aliens.
Forgive me if I don’t think
our problems are alien.
No, they are as domestic
as our pumping blood
and beating hearts
and our whole chorus of organs.
To play scapegoat and deny this
would be to prove I haven’t listened
to the only thing you’ve been talking about
more than Dr. Who in the past few months.

I also don’t think the TARDIS is anything special.
After all, any given person
is bigger on the inside than out,
regardless of whether they have
a large heart or a cardiac cartel
or no heart at all.
How much of your time is spent
trying to prove that to people?
How much of your time was spent
trying to prove that to me?
More time than any Doctor spent
trying to save the world-
the message was implicit
in every gift more colorful than its wrapper.

“But it can travel through time!”
you’ll say, and I’ll say,
time travel is only the daydream
of those who worship results.
It’s why I say, given the chance,
I’d go back in time to drink Crystal Pepsi.
Still, I’d do that-
I heard it doesn’t taste any different,
but I want the chance to say,
“Wow, this sure is something.”
Trying to fix things is certainly tempting,
but it’s trading the ballgame for the scores.
It’s turning down the journey
because she’s not a cheap date.
It’s condemning dancing
as a terribly inefficient mode of locomotion.

Sure, I would’ve liked to fix things,
but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
But I learned so much
from accepting the past,
and there’s a good reason
Dr. Who has long since abandoned
its educational roots.

“But it can travel through space!”
you’ll say, and I’ll say,
there was a time when
I thought distance was the issue,
but that’s not true anymore.
Back then, I would’ve
traded anything for a spaceship,
and still, all my cars
are countdowns to The Delta V,
but I don’t think a spaceship
could ever double as a lifeboat.
In fact, I think back
to our happiest moments,
like driving around who knows where
at who knows when,
hopped up on coffee and
burning through a pack of American Spirits.
I dare you to tell me
that if you did it again,
you’d forgo the road.
I dare you to tell me
that each cigarette butt
wasn’t a love letter to the pavement,
that each drag wasn’t a slash
through the useless words
of some washed up novel
and an attempt to unearth poetry.

I dare you to tell me
that when Mischief Brew shuffled on,
and we sang along,
screaming “Coffee, God, and cigarettes
are all that you need!”,
I dare you to tell me
that at that time, the road wasn’t God,
when it was its existence
that made all of that possible.

I don’t care for The Doctor either,
and believe me, it’s because
I tried to be him.
I failed, and not because
I’m not some hottie with a British accent.
It’s because he has no name.
Remember how I traded my name,
or maybe my body,
all for some cheap fraternity?

Noble as it seems
to devote one’s life to fixing others,
remember how that made my hands
sting like angry alcohol
when all you needed was an ear or shoulder?

See, a man with no name
is no man at all, and
caring about people, I mean,
really caring about people- well,
if I learned anything from you,
it’s that truly caring about people
is hard work- a man’s work,
or, a human’s work.
It takes an entire body.
Brains with arms and legs need not apply.

Ayn Rand in Anthem
warned of men who would trade true love
for a mission statement,
and I should have listened.
The Doctor is lucky, then,
that he is a fictional character
and therefore no man.

“Ah! But he can change!”
you’ll say, and I’ll say,
sure, that’s great.
Every time he dies,
he’s a new person.
And maybe that explains
your obsession with him,
considering your capacity
for reinvention and rebranding-
your new haircut, new hair color,
your new Facebook name,
new Facebook account,
new wardrobe, new crush-
new everything.

He makes it so easy-
easy as dying, and
it’s so easy to die. I know.
It left like death before I left,
but I was a new person then.
Well, I haven’t forgotten everything
from my past life.
I haven’t forgotten you.

I’m sure you’ve felt like death too
sometime in these past few months,
but I’ll ask that,
even though I won’t be
watching Dr. Who alongside you,
please, don’t forget me.

The Sincerest

Sat, 10 Dec 2011 22:28:00 -0500

Another old one I had to edit. I hope I’m not the only one that’s amused by the fact that it uses the theme of returning to things. Anyway, as always, let me know what you think. By the way, this is the last of my Challenge Edits. I wanted to do one every day, but then school kicked my ass.

Original Version:

Just one look
at my pale, frowning
face
and you’ll know
that this
whirlwind of progress
is nothing more
than consistent
sentimentalism.
My hands spin
‘round and ‘round
to the same
places
at the same
times.

Is it fated
that I should
keep clamoring
for that
young harmony,
that back-and-forth
you call a dance,
or that
stargazer’s buffet,
or am I driven
by some rock
I call a skull?

I’m a little
haunted
by that tick-tock.
Tick
and I’m yours
Tock and
I’m gone
but never for long.

At the end of the
day,
I’m no better
than a thirsty
fishbowl.
I’m just a
crude imitation
that can’t measure
up to you,
and being
close to you
is no substitute
for being
close to you.

Edited Version:

I dance like a whirlwind
but I dress in plastic-
the kind you see right through-
and you’re into my eyes
and you can conclude
that this airborne yardsale-
“progress”, I call it-
is that clock hand kind of progress
‘cause it never gets me anywhere.
I am loyal like a dog
to my old habits-
the ones I stole from you.

Tell me- when you look in my eyes,
do you see a storm
or an eye that wants out?
Am I going to keep clamoring
for that young harmony,
that back-and-forth on your eighteenth
before the stars fell out of the sky
and Crayola boxed up all the colors?
Or will my feet steal themselves back
from the echoing beat
of the old radio on your porch?

That tick-tock is starting to haunt me.
Tick and I’m yours,
tock and I’m gone,
but never for long.

And even when you let go,
my training wheels are loose,
and I think I forgot my body
back at your birthday party.
It is busy working on a caricature
of your choreography,
and we’re both trying so hard
to be like you.

So while I may be hot off the copier,
I’m still chill like leftovers.
I’m a jammed disc drive
skipping to your Greatest Hits.
I’m a paper queen
on an all-flesh chessboard,
and I’m taken.
I’m grasping at your discarded straws
and eyeing dresses in the Goodwill.

And at the end of the day,
I’m no better than a thirsty fishbowl.
I’m just a barbaric imitation
that can’t measure up to you,
and being close to you
is no substitute
for being close to you.

You Can Do More Than Tango

Sat, 10 Dec 2011 22:15:00 -0500

Even if someone’s broken your heart, you have to learn to keep moving. And sometimes that means posting your damn poems. :P

This one is fun. Let me know what you think of the editing.

Original Version:

You’ve broken my heart so many times
it’s learned to beat that way,
but it’s never been as busted as it was
the time I asked you to dance
on a table with me,
and you said it was a stupid idea.

You see, nobody dances enough.
Not even professionals.
If every living person
danced from the time they woke up
until the time the curtains
on the show called life came down,
people still wouldn’t be dancing enough.

I have enough energy to twist my tongue
into admitting this, so I don’t know
why I don’t dance more.
I go to shows.
I swallow beats.
But my limbs still need to beg me to move,
and all I can do is stand still.

Maybe- maybe I’m still waiting for you,
even though you boogied out of my life
over a year ago,
so maybe I need to stop waiting
and just start dancing.

Edited Version:

You’ve dropped my heart so many times
it’s learned to beat broken,
but the worst was when I asked you
to dance on top of a table with me,
and you spit in my open palm
and told me it was a stupid idea.

Now, maybe it’s because I was up on that table
that we didn’t see eye to eye,
but even if you didn’t want
to be the eye of the storm
or live like Fitzgerald,
nobody dances enough, darling.
Not even professionals.
Not even Fitzgerald,
who took the occasional break
to think or write or drink.

Even if every living person
followed their heartbeat and started dancing
from the first beam of sunlight
slashing their blinds
until the time their curtains closed,
people still wouldn’t be dancing enough.

I have enough energy
to twist my tongue into admitting this,
so I don’t know why I don’t dance more.
I go to all the shows,
and my ears are always chewing on beats,
but my limbs still beg me
to bust a move.
And even though my bones
haven’t gone on strike yet,
all I can do is yawn.

Maybe- maybe I’m still waiting for you.
Maybe I’ve still got my spit-drenched palm out,
waiting to take your hand
even though you boogied out of my life
over a year ago.
But I can’t wait any longer, darling.
My heart may know how to beat broken,
but if I want to beat “broken”
I need to put my hands up
and just start dancing.

Narcissus and The High School Girl

Sat, 10 Dec 2011 22:08:00 -0500

This is the first real free form poem I’ve ever written, and I feel like I’ve come a long way since. I actually felt kind of bad about editing it, ha. Anyway, let me know what you think.

Original Version:

Here’s a happy hypothetical-
a funhouse mirror
that makes you cuter.
That’s what it’s like
with her.

Now
that image outgrows
imagination
and you know
and I mean know
that this isn’t
illusion, but
infatuation.
That’s what it’s like
with her.

She’s real-
living, loving,
laughing at your jokes.
But still-
like a mirror-
she tells you much
about yourself
in the simplest way.
What you want-
and what’s right under your nose.
They’re reflections, too.
That’s what it’s like
with her.

Soon your mind’s
an Echo chamber
for her praise,
and soon,
you’re out of that
circus, that
malaise, and
up in the clouds.
But how clearly you see!
That’s what it’s like
with her.

She takes the bitter
out of coffee
and the sting
out of waking up
in the morning.
And you’re up in
the clouds
with so much
potential energy
you can do anything!
And that’s why
you’re afraid
of your reflection.
(Don’t be.)
That’s what it’s like
with her.

Edited Version:

With her, you’ve got a little stake
made of spice and grace
pinning down your tongue and toes,
suspending you in front of a funhouse mirror
that makes you cuter.

With her, that image stretches
out the sweater your imagination knit
until it shreds, and your chest
bids adieu to Christmas.
But Christmas sticks around,
because this is more than illusion,
more than decorations:
this is a full-blown infautation,
the kind of full-body feeling
summoned when stomachs
aren’t nearly big enough
for all the butterflies
because she is a full-body mirror.

She is here. She is real.
She is living, loving, and
laughing at your jokes.
Even if she were the desperate daydreams
of some self-absorbed teenage virgin,
she’s slowly stealing all the solid
out of your legs.
That’s the floating feeling.

With her, you can learn
everything you forgot about yourself
when you abandoned your body
to be a floating head.
Like a mirror, she can tell you
so much about yourself
in the simplest way.
She knows what you want,
and what’s right under your nose.
She knows those things
are reflections, too.

Images of her invade your brain
and evict bit players with punch-kick combos.
Soon your mind’s an Echo chamber
for her praise, and soon,
you’re out of that circus, that malaise,
and you shoot
straight up into the clouds!
But how clearly you see!
It’s as if the farthest stars come closer
so they can ask
how your smile got so bright.

With her, you’re a new kind of smooth,
like your whole life’s on a Slip N’ Slide.
She sips the bitter out of coffee
and the sting out of waking up in the morning.
And you- you’ve slid amongst constellations,
and you’re up, up, up
in the clouds, just burning with potential energy-
so much you could do anything!

Maybe that’s why you’re afraid
of your reflection.
But you have to ask her,
because even though you’re Narcissus,
even though you’re the whole world,
there’s nothing you wouldn’t give up
to be with her.

Eff this Helipad!

Sat, 19 Nov 2011 01:25:00 -0500

Most of the work done with this one was smoothing stuff out and adding minor details to make it more cohesive. Let me know what you think!

Original:

I saw you in the waiting room at the hospital,
but how I don’t know-
you were so quiet, so ghostly,
and dressed in the same pale, floral pattern
as the walls. You were
about as vivid and stiff
as the ferns waiting around you.

But still, I saw you,
because as quiet as you were,
still as a birdhouse on Christmas Eve,
I could still hear your firestarter heart,
buried, but giving the middle finger to “still”
and pounding away under your floorboard skin
like you were a drum set.

So why pretend you’re an earth girl?
Why pretend you’re a fern,
why pretend you need to have your feet
buried in the dirt to live?
You’re an air girl-
I can feel it.

So be like me, which is a helicopter
trapped in a human body, I guess,
because when I get going,
I know how to be LOUD,
and when everyone with ears
can hear my heartbeat,
that’s when I’m really flying.

And you?
You could join me.
We could be loud and fly together,
we could be a volume beyond numbers,
we could make The Bloop sound like mute,
and we could really soar!
So let’s tear the duct tape off of our hearts,
and take out the thumbtacks piercing our propellers,
clipping us onto a corkboard called courtesy!

We could be so LOUD, girl.
We could be sex before walls were built,
before there was ever any reason
to be quiet and concealed.

Now, being airborne could be dangerous.
That’s why we met in the hospital,
it’s why I’ve got this bandage on my head.
But hey, maybe the next window I jump out of
will be the right one, then
everyone will know I can fly.

So, what do you say?
Do you wanna fly out of that waiting room?
Do you wanna be LOUD?
Do you wanna be a helicopter
with me?

Edited Version:

I saw you in the waiting room at the hospital,
a stroke of fate, maybe-
you were so quiet, so ghostly, and
your dress was covered in dead flowers-
the same pattern as on the walls.
You were as still and still-life
as the ferns waiting around you.
But still, I saw you,
because as quiet as you were,
still as a birdhouse on Christmas Eve,
I could still hear your firestarter heart,
buried, but giving the middle finger to “still”
and pounding away under your floorboard skin
like you were a drum set.

So why pretend you’re an earth girl?
Why pretend you’re a fern?
Why pretend you need to live your life
with your feet already buried in the dirt?
You’re no winter, miss.
You’ve got that spring fire-
you’re a sunflower watered by the promise
of waking up each day.
You’re an air girl- I can feel it.

So be like me- a helicopter
trapped in a human body.
When I get going,
I know how to be LOUD,
and when everyone with ears
can hear my heartbeat,
that’s when I’m really flying.

And you?
You could join me.
We could start a dynasty in the sky.
We could be loud and fly together,
we could be a volume beyond the reach of numbers,
we could make The Bloop sound like mute,
and we could really soar!
So let’s tear the duct tape off of our hearts,
let’s take out the thumbtacks piercing our propellers
and clipping us onto a corkboard called courtesy
because we could be so LOUD, girl.
We could be sex before walls were ever built,
before there was ever any reason
to stay quiet and concealed.

Now, being airborne could be dangerous.
That’s why we met in the hospital,
it’s why I’ve got this bandage on my head.
But you couldn’t get more ghostly, girl.
And hey, maybe the next window I jump out of
will be the right one, then
everyone will know I’m the king of the helicopters,
everyone will know I can fly!

So what do you say, girl?
Do you wanna fly out of that waiting room?
Do you wanna be the loudest queen
this world’s ever seen?
Do you wanna shatter all the glass ceilings?
Do you wanna be a helicopter
with me?

Pink Zebras

Sat, 19 Nov 2011 01:18:00 -0500

This one was really hard to edit, since circumstances dictate that it be deliberately esoteric. That sounds really pretentious, and if you agree with that assessment, or have other comments, let me know!

Original:

There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras.
There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras.
There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras.
Not when the echo
takes up so much space.

I thought I was the
sole tollpayer on the road
to your washing machine-
I thought a foamy baptism
could get me out
of an ark of a situation.
But I had a mirror
for a roommate-
and he brought his
psycho flamingo girlfriend with him.

My potato patch vocabulary
dressed itself in
a floating famine,
thinning, thinning,
like cheerleaders or
an increasingly jaded haircut,
trying to slip in
between bubbling
and tears.
Syllables crashed like
flies into a windshield
enough times to spell out
“Happy Birthday!” and
“You May Already Be a Winner!”

After my voicebox
ejected the tiny ballerina
working the controls,
I felt lost, but on
the way out, she taught
me how how to split.

So split I did,
with about negative
twenty-one years on the clock.
Now if you are
a historian
or a physicist,
or casually acquainted
with my legs,
you’d know that I
can’t outrun a flood,
or outswim a plot.

I mean, you probably already
saw right through me,
you know I’m a ghost,
a ghost of a zebra,
colored pink as a
Pac Man appetizer,
but I’m not here to haunt you.
I just thought, even
though we’re a tiny pink zebra
apart, and even though
it’s gonna be so
fresh and shiny,
making my majesty
look like rust,
and I got a steel wool tongue
but I’m a pink zebra,
not a dirty cat,
I thought we could pass
a ping pong ball across its back
and stuff updates
in its nucleus.
It’s just big enough
for a shrunken hairdo
or a “hello,
how are you?”

Edited Version:

Didja hear me? I said,
“There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras!
There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras!
There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras!”
Not when the echo
takes up so much space.

I was supposed to be alone
on the road to your washing machine-
the sole tollpayer
hoping to make use of your soapbox.
But when I showed up for my foamy baptism,
I bumped into my new roommate
(and my mini mirror image.)
The space invader even had the gall
to bring his psycho pink flamingo girlfriend with him.
“What punks,” I thought.
“What conquistadors!”

I tried kicking them out,
but my blood was boiling white hot,
and every word aspiring to escape me
was scrubbed into a puff of steam.
This trimmed the herd of my vocabulary
down to growls and consonants.
I was clenching my teeth so hard
that any other hopeful syllables
crashed like flies into a windshield
enough times to spell out,
“Happy Birthday!” and
“You May Already Be a Winner!”

After my voicebox ejected
the tiny ballerina working the controls,
I felt lost for a second,
because most of the time,
I can be all talk.
Fortunately, on the way out,
she taught me how to split.

So split I did, but
I was way too late to make a clean break.
The wash cycle had started,
and suds started coming down like lightning.
Now, if you are a historian,
or a physicist,
or casually acquainted with my legs,
you’d know that I can’t outrun a flood,
and I can’t paddle fast enough
to outswim a grave, or irrelevance.
(Did you know?)

I mean, you probably already
saw right through me,
and you know I’m a ghost,
the ghost of a once-white zebra
colored pink as a Pac Man appetizer,
but I’m not hear to haunt you.
I just thought that
even though we’re a tiny pink zebra apart now,
and even though it’s gonna be
so fresh and shiny like a tiny star,
and even though I’m an old pink zebra
who shrunk in the wash,
I thought we could pass
ping pong balls across its back,
stuffing updates in the nucleus.
It’s just big enough
for a photograph
and a “hello,
how are you?”

I Made Love to a Timebomb

Sun, 13 Nov 2011 13:55:00 -0500

This is Poem #3 for my editing challenge. I’m really happy with this one, but I want to know what you think!

Original:

I made love to a timebomb.
That’s not a metaphor.
It was so easy-
we were so compatible.
Both of us were so adept
at making holes in things.

You see, we all hear
the cartoon anvil whistling
scream of falling lovers,
but we all ignore it-
tell ourselves it’s all
cathode ray conjuration-
all plastic and technicolor.
We exhale ourselves,
praying that the water vapor
will come together
like two jigsaw sweethearts
will come together
atop a carpet
of conversational clouds,
new as the moon is black.

When you’re with a timebomb,
there’s no pressure-
you can cut the wires of
expected monamory,
because memento, mori,
maybe.

When you’re with a timebomb,
you can see
all the buttons
you’re supposed to push.

When you’re with a timebomb,
that chronic countdown
is coded into computer chips.
It’s normal. Expected.
The omen softly implodes
into a small pop,
and you can stop pretending
you don’t love that
droning, beeping,
moaning cadence.
You start to thrust to its rhythm,
anticipating explosion.

When you’re with a timebomb,
you don’t have to worry
about finishing
first and alone.
In fact, that’s probably better
for your long term health.

When you’re with a timebomb,
you don’t have to finger
at the soft spots between
wires and switchboards,
hoping to dig in at skin,
hoping your dead cells
fall into her like appleseeds,
tasting resurrection,
playing phoenix when
there’s a fire.
Even if she remembers you,
she’ll be all shrapnel-
and you were never
very handy with glue.

When you’re with a timebomb,
you can’t jump away from
swallowing inferno knowledge
that this will all end.
You’re not playing Space Invaders-
you can aim embraces at her,
and not where you think
she’s going to be.
You can afford to be there
with her,
instead of scavenging different
post-apocalyptic futures
for each other.

Edited Version:

I made love to a timebomb.
It wasn’t easy, trading
high heels and lipstick
for wires and gunmetal grey,
but once you make the switch,
you’ll learn to appreciate a girl who
doesn’t need to walk on eggshells
for fear of poking holes in things,
a girl who isn’t too busy worrying
how everything will turn out
to savor every tick and tock.

I made love to a timebomb, yeah,
but spare me the quizzical stares.
There are explosives built into each of us, after all.
We’ve all been in a relationship
that looked like a cartoon bomb,
and we’ve all turned ourselves blue
trying to blow out the spark flirting with the wick.
We can pray it’s all a cartoon,
all cathode ray conjuration.
We can pray until our whole body
marches out of our mouth,
and we’re heaving on the ground
looking like some gross cornucopia.
And you’ll get your wish,
because you’ll never look more like a cartoon.

Timebombs, however, are too real for TV,
and what a blessing that is.
There’s no pressure to make ratings
or drag things out long past their lifespan.
Timebombs aren’t alive unless their urgent and uncut,
so feel free to quit shopping for rings
and discard thoughts of monogamy because
memento, mori, baby.

Who knew certain doom could be so sexy?
With any other girl, it’s a pest you’ll try
to shoo away until the end of days,
but when you’re with a timebomb,
that clockwork countdown
is coded into the computer chips.
It’s normal. It’s natural.
It’s the call of the wild,
and the call of the wild
is a droning, beeping, moaning cadence
you can time your thrusts to.

When you’re with a timebomb,
you don’t have to worry about finishing alone.
With a timebomb,
you have no monopoly on explosions.

When you’re with a timebomb,
you don’t have to finger
at the soft spots between wires and switchboards
hoping to dig in at skin
and begging your dead cells
to fall into her like appleseeds
so that they may play phoenix
for a flickering old flame.
Even if she remembers you,
she’ll be all shrapnel,
and you were never very handy with glue.

Yes, make love to a timebomb,
and you’ll be swallowed by inferno.
Don’t try to jump away or play Space Invaders-
instead, spend that energy aiming embraces
where she is, not where she will be.

Your time together may seem short,
but it can be more than all the time in the world
or until death do us part.
Other girls have clocks telling them
to live life through motherhood,
but the most important thing
a timebomb will ever do
is say goodbye to you.

I'm the Reason

Sun, 13 Nov 2011 13:05:00 -0500

This is Poem #2 for my editing challenge! Tell me what you think!

Original:

I’m the reason you came here tonight,
the revolting coals in your one-man queue,
Dan.

I’m the springs scraping soles,
your inner arsonist who swims
in routine monsoons
and shares air with the squirrels
living in between the walls.

Staple “shadow” to my chest,
but I’d be a sunken ship
if you didn’t worship the Sun.
Shred yellows pages for an exorcist,
email a cease-and-desist
to you personal oral poltergeist,
but I wouldn’t be
the peanut butter between your teeth
if your pony pout wasn’t
screaming to speak.

Feel free to breathe in the fumes
born from burning your bondage license.
You’re not built for
sitting around in a cell.
Besides, everyone knows you’re
too sweet for sadism, and
too fragile for masochism.

Take the souffle soliloquy
you would’ve stuffed your pillow with,
and make it her birthday.
Effervesce together.
Condense into clouds,
and ride the lovechild lightning
smack into the ground- get scorched
if that’s what pays to
stop floating around.

Come on, man.
You’re the city slugger,
not the stoopstuck slug.
You can crunch in or strike out,
but you’re long out of walking,
because the catcher’s
just a ghost story by now.

I’ll be here to cradle
your cage-sized nerves
if you’re scared of splinters,
so long as you swing.
So long as you swing,
I’ll be your swimming lessons.

I know storms like her
have practiced blitzkrieg against your lungs,
but today, stay your melting hands
and what you understand,
because today,
your eyes and ears
are first at bat,
buddy.

Edited version:

I’m the reason you came here tonight.
I’m the revolting coals burning up your one-man queue,
Dan.
I’m the one shouting “Next!”

I’m the springs scraping soles,
the inner arsonist who’s ready to
bounce through this monsoon
like it was my third or fourth cup of coffee
so I can start a fire on the other side.
I’m the tenant sharing air
with the squirrels inside your walls.
If you’ve ever felt your house move,
now you know who to thank.
So let’s get this house shaking again.

Woah, woah, man! Drop the vacuum! I’m no ghost!
I’m more like your shadow.
A shadow that sells self-help books.
So before you staple “spirit” to my forehead,
before you shred the yellow pages for an exorcist
or send me a cease-and-desist letter,
remember that I’d cease to exist
if you didn’t need someone
to stick peanut butter between your teeth
so you could neigh today, little horsey.

This jail cell’s too small and the art scene sucks,
so let’s burn this baby down.
Give me your shaking. Give me your shackles.
We’ll need plenty of kindling.
Peace out, prison! Bon voyage, bondage years!
And don’t worry, man- everyone knows
you’re too sweet for sadism
and too fragile for masochism, anyway.

Let’s take the souffle you baked,
the soliloquy of a pastry you planned on
stuffing into your pillow,
and instead, make it a dance floor.
Strut up to that girl you’ve been eyeing,
and make it her birthday.
Effervesce together.
Condense into clouds, then ride
the lovechild lightning
smack into the ground.
Show everyone how deities dance.

Come on, man.
You’re the city’s number one slugger,
but you’re putzing around in the dugout!
It’s time to crunch in or strike out.
You ran out of walking ages ago,
and the catcher’s just a ghost story by now.
But I’ve got your back.
I’ll pick the splinters out of your palms,
so long as you swing.
So long as you swing,
I’ll be your coach. Hell, I’ll be your bat.

I know storms like her
have practiced blitzkrieg against your lungs,
but take a deep breath,
because today, your trembling hands will swing.
Today, the lion inside of you is first at bat,
buddy.

Hanging Up Knuckles for a One-Piece

Sun, 13 Nov 2011 11:28:00 -0500

This is Poem #1 for my editing challenge. Let me know what you think!

Original:

You can’t call yourself a swimmer
if you’ve only ever
dipped your toes in.
I mean, it’s a start,
but if it’s a thirst
that ends with your toes,
placidly fettered
to single digits,
if it’s just a sneeze
of impotent sparks
with no ambition
of dressing the planet in ash,
then I wouldn’t-
couldn’t call it love.

And are you really swimming
if you’re still wearing
water wings?
Are you really a swimmer,
or are you a magician,
a trickster who’s
trained her wrists
to pitch illusions,
whose sleight of hand
is married to the sound of freights,
whistling in
rumors about yourself?
Or are you just
floating around?
You know you can’t
stick your head in,
like the quill pens
intellectuals used to use
before they simultaneously
grew tired
of their feathered instruments
taking flight right before
all those bursts
that demand you write.

And you know what?
Diving in doesn’t make you
a swimmer, either.
You can dive in
twenty times or
one hundred thousand times,
but love isn’t
seven minutes in heaven
or a blowjob
in someone’s back seat
or the sleight of hand
you perform to make
men with sharp teeth
disappear.
Both those things
can swallow you,
and yeah,
I know it’s hard
to tell the difference
sometimes
when you’re being digested,
and how it’s tough
to weigh anything else
when you’re busy
feeling either whispy
or like everywhere you go
is made of quicksand,
but trust me,
the difference exists
and silently demands
to be noticed
just as much as you.

You’re not a swimmer
if you’ve spent days
atop an inflatable raft,
never quite touching
the water.
I mean- you may be-
what do I really know,
but you’re not a cookie,
and you don’t have to
sit inside an oven
patiently baking
until golden brown
and hoping that someone
will finally find you enticing
enough for more than
just taste tests.

I suppose you’re scared
because you need to always
keep some part of yourself dry,
like Achilles in the River Styx,
and because swimming
is a whole body exercise.

The screaming chill
of the water and
the bark of constant splashing
lay tasks on your chest
like night hags,
and if you want to live,
if you need to live,
you’ve gotta start kicking
and julienne the sea
with your outstretched arms,
but it’s never about
running away so much as
fleeing sinking.

And don’t forget your heart,
or do. Let it beat as it
needs to.
Don’t try to conduct-
your arms, after all,
should be busy.

It’ll be alright.
Your muscles will tear to shreds,
but when they return,
you will be so much more
able to lift things up.
You may have some
battle wounds, but
a healthy love has a way
of patching those up-
even the ones
you don’t know about-
the ones not visible
in the mirror you use
to convince yourself
of who you are.
But how you are
doesn’t have to be
who you are.
Water isn’t going to
colonize your guts.
You can learn to swim.
Just try to frequent gentler bodies.

And even though
you may be swept away,
it’s all gonna be okay-
you don’t need to drown
to call yourself
a swimmer.
__________________________________________
Edited version:

For those who are afraid of falling in love:
You can’t call yourself a swimmer
if you’ve only ever dipped your toes in.
Sure, it’s a start,
but if it’s a thirst quenched by toes alone,
if it’s placidly fettered to single digits,
if it’s just a sneeze of impotent sparks
with no ambition of dressing the planet in ash,
then I wouldn’t-
couldn’t call it love.

And can you call yourself a swimmer
if you’re still wearing water wings?
Are you really swimming,
or are you some magician, a trickster
who’s trained her wrists to pitch illusions,
whose sleight of hand is married
to the sound of freights
sent to whistle in rumors about herself?
Or are you just floating and flirting around?
Consider yourself a quill pen:
if you never stick your head in,
you’ll never write love letters,
and your feathered body’s just gonna
fly away someday.

Diving in doesn’t make you a swimmer, either.
You can dive in twenty times
or one hundred thousand times,
but love isn’t seven minutes in heaven
or a blowjob in someone’s back seat
or the sleight of hand you perform
to make men with sharp teeth disappear.
They can all swallow you, yeah,
but you can’t forget the difference!
Those maws are dark,
and their tongues of quicksand,
but please, listen for the difference
speaking softly in a voice
like yours.

You’re also not a swimmer
if you’ve spent a holiday atop an inflatable raft,
never quite touching the water.
Sitting inside a sunlit oven
and patiently baking until you’re golden brown enough
for the taste tasters
won’t make you a swimmer.

I suppose you’re scared
because you always need to keep
some part of yourself dry,
like Achilles in the River Styx,
and because swimming is a whole body exercise.

The screaming chill of the water
and the bark of constant splashing
lay tasks like night hags on your chest,
but if you want to live,
if you need to LIVE,
you’ve gotta start kicking
and julienne the sea with your outstretched arms.

Forget your heart.
Let it beat as it needs to,
and don’t try to conduct-
your arms, after all, should be busy.

Your muscles may tear to shreds,
but they will return
bigger than any fish story.
And love? Love has a way
of patching up battle wounds-
even the ones your wicked mirror won’t show you.
Don’t let that mirror be an anchor.
Water isn’t going to colonize your lungs.
You can learn to swim.
But you gotta jump in first.

And even though you may be swept away,
it’s gonna be okay-
you don’t need to drown
to call yourself a swimmer.

Scrubbing Sand Off of Candy: An Editing Odyssey

Sun, 13 Nov 2011 10:56:00 -0500

Hey, so, November is National Novel Writing Month, but I don’t write novels. But I still want to write. Some of my poet friends have resolved to do a 30/30 this month, but I’m writing poems at a healthy rate right now, so I don’t really need one of those. However, I do have a severe problem with editing. I rarely ever edit, because I don’t like the notion that my work is flawed. Basically, I’m too scared to face my writing.This month, that changes. Below is a list of pretty much every poem I’ve written in the past three years, starting with Narcissus and The High School Girl, the first real free form poem I wrote (and the first one I read at Loserslam). Each day, I’m going to use a pseudorandom number generator to pick one of these poems, and throughout that day I have to edit the poem I rolled. And no bullshitting, changing one word or whatever. I have to make an earnest effort to improve the poem. And really, some of these are awful, so it could be hard work. But anyway, this should be awesome and fun and unpredictable. Maybe, if people care enough about this, I could start a trend, ha. Anyway, I’m hoping some of you guys will come along for the ride.

So, here it is:

*THE LIST*

GREEN BOOK

1. Narcissus and The High School Girl

2. Possibilities Lost

3. Stoic Scarecrow

4. The Troubles of Anthomancy

5. The Sincerest

6. Plymouth Rock

7. Salmon Journal

8. Soundseeing

9. Divide by a Zero

10. A Thirst With Designs on the Mind

11. A Torch for Icarus

12. “Motherfucker” Seemed Inappropriate

13. To The Predator Scents on my Pillow

BLACK BOOK

14. Turning Myself In and Inside-Out

15. A Start to an End

16. Eating an Orange

17. The Last Moments of Mr. Sanchez and Sr. Bear

18. Beanstalk

19. Kathleen’s Poem

20. Cistern Lovers

21. Rubber Goddess

22. Sailing Stones and Marble Bones

23. Tadpole Daydreams

24. Homework Assignment

25. Somebody’s Gotta Fail: like, The Killers

26. If this Poem is my Cannon, Will You Be my Helmet?

BLUE BOOK

27. I Don’t Know What to Call This

28. Hanging Up Knuckles for a One-Piece

29. Murderer

30. Pink Zebras

31. Dear Loverboy

32. The Day Gerald Bought a Trebuchet

33. Cover Fire

34. I Dig Now

35. Tupperware Containers

36. Nose Biter

37. Before the Fire

RED BOOK

38. We Are Flowers, After All

39. Free Hands

40. Ode to Doors

41. Me and You and Dr. Who

42. 40oz for my 40oz

30/30 2010

43. Dream Game

44. Right Arm Rebellion Versus Voyeurs

45. Punching Ants

46. The Gravekeeper at Applegate Park

47. Lather, Rinse, Learn

48. Milk Carton Girl

49. Nickels

50. Mi amor, habríamos sido los piratas

51. Home Run Away

52. War of Attrition

53. To Tear Off Cupid’s Wings

54. I Made Love to a Timebomb

55. Roll on, Pork Rollers

56. Near

57. Far

58. Night Cuts Across Power Lines

59. All You Can Be Buffet

60. Lone Wolf Marshmallow Cereal

61. Antistereotype Rap for Interpersonal Communication Presentation, to be Performed in Cowboy Clothes

62. Oasis of Melted Snow

63. 4 A.M. Revelations on the Nature of Man

64. Buried in Forgeries

65. Peering Through the Holes in A Safety Net

66. Argonaut Molar

67. For Those in Need of a Bucket

68. Chickpea

69. Broken Parachute

70. Ironically, or Beautifully, I Nodded Off in the Middle of Writing This

71. Birth, Life, and Death in a Line

30/30 2011

72. Lucid Dreaming

73. I Wish I Were a Gardener And…

74. Silver Seeking Tongue

75. If Our Schools Were of Fish

76. The Thanatos of a Snowman

77. Eff this Helipad!

78. Because Lipstick is Crayon-Colored

79. Pop

80. You Can Do More than Tango

81. Burning CDs

82. Hear Evil, Upheaval

83. An End to Duets

84. Fish School Dropouts

85. Trapdoor to Paradise

86. History is Serendipity

87. From a Flower to a Faery

88. Warning for a Box of Animal Crackers

89. The harvest is not always something to celebrate

90. If Motivational Speakers Sold Tanks

91. Poetry Can Get You Laid

92. Hey cat! Get out of my shoe!

93. Hot Dating Tips for People with Tongues

94. Do We Play for the Lights?

95. You’ve Got Two Legs for Breaking

96. Lemonode

97. Both this poem and its intended recipient shall go untitled

POEMS ON THE LOOSE

98. Nonconformist

99. The Benefits of Being a Viscous Liquid

100. From the Diary of Terra Cotta

101. Love Letter to The World

102. We Sat Around the Record Player

103. Hanging Your Eyes Out

104. After Lunch

105. The Food Critic that would be Born if Gordon Ramsey and The Devil Did It

106. Lady Tips for Sr. Bear

107. I’m The Reason

OMITTED:

- Form anything

- Short story anything (Sorry Ben!)

- “Dear Milo”, a parody of Jessica Tewell’s “Dear Jessica”

- Half-poems not even worthy of revision (and believe me, I was pretty lenient on what counted as a “poem”).

Otherwise, this is pretty much every poem I’ve written in the past three years. And I may have to edit any one of them.