December 29, 2010
I thought of this a couple of weeks ago but decided to wait until the New Year, because (1) I’m somewhat compulsive that way, and (2) this is a bit of a personal experiment for me. I’ve been thinking a lot about habits lately and I thought starting on January 1 would allow me to track how long I do this and if I am able to truly establish it as a habit.
So...gauntlet thrown down to self! Let’s see if I manage a sentence on Saturday.
November 5, 2010
Her arms too filled with concessions
she fails to reach for the lifeline
—Damned slippery resuscitations!—
but finds consolation in her juggling:
when marble is cheap we die for linoleum,
we put our faith in cork,
we carry our idols in our pockets.
She shuffles polite lies and
redistributes her ideals
and reminds herself to
put lotion on her elbows.
Somewhere in her inside jacket pocket,
—near to her heart—
is a pocket knife
scratched by derisiveness,
chipped by disappointment,
and honed by a large sense of patience.
She wishes she could hold it in her hand
just at that moment
and feel the weight of it.
After all, absence makes the lines go skew.
October 15, 2010
Sci-fi girl in a world of Neanderthals
admits to being hampered,
if only slightly, by fluctuations
in the space/time continuum.
Still, it’s the technology that counts!
16 gigs of music to their chink-chink
of hammer on stone, on wood,
on water (for reasons inexplicable),
and on thickly-browed skull bone.
So what if she’s swamp adjacent?
She comforts herself by opening
and closing the arms
of her Swiss army knife:
Home is where your hinged
mechanism is oiled, isn’t it?
September 24, 2010
July 27, 2010
Early morning thieves steal forth from Lockerbie
enticed by rumored mermaids to the east.
Their quiet passage briefly noted in the air
by the former lighthouse keeper,
too old to have anyone to warn.
His morning mug full of the squall
and tempests of yesteryear,
his heart stowing away in the knapsack
of the shortest roustabout.
He gathered no respect from his fellows
for his arm, nor for his steady countenance,
but for the unlikely sweetness of his singing voice.
The second eldest had even been known to note
the sway of his true love’s hips at the sound
of the demur one’s refashioned canticle.
Her heart, though, cannot be deterred
from its original path by some wayward beat.
She weeps into her laundry and sincerely
decries mermaids, merchants, and mercurial moods.
The leader of the expedition is unburdened
by such distractions. His knees bend only
for treasures, his eyes glint only
for the gleam of jewels and doubloons.
He is a veritable thieve, whilst the others
are at best humble connivers.
He cares not for lighthouse keepers,
lonely songs, or lovers, or even
lost mermaids, only the plunder
that might be had from such endeavors.So the morning moves into day.
July 8, 2010
teaching little girls
to weave nooses
and carve totems
for future negotiation survival
gotcha right here in my pocket
my little survival list
and ill-timed invasions
three fingers to the gods
“I will not capitulate
I will not perpetuate,
I will not allow less
May 27, 2010
1. They lose all respect for you
2. (a) You are slower than the bear and, therefore, essentially chasing bear scat
(b) You are the same speed as the bear and, therefore, must commence with bear wrestling
(c) You are faster than the bear and, therefore, bored and the bear petulant
3. Such practices often necessitate the changing of scented products, including but not exclusive to: shampoo, perfume, lotion, and cocktails
4. They are carrion eaters
5. They rarely share
May 12, 2010
April 26, 2010
the last time I saw you
was like hooked fish on a sleeping line
a brief thrash in the exhaustion
of the ever present end
and the farther away the days between get
it wasn’t meant to go well
it was just meant to get
the denouement of act III
le entrevue of the next character
doomed forever to the shadow of your timing
lost forever in the oceans of schools
not only not got but certainly not get
not you in the thrash
not you in the unexpected loss
not you in the quiet need to lie
that this certainly couldn’t be
the last time I saw you
March 29, 2010
March 3, 2010
her stomach’s stuck in the fall of New York
her eyes are swimming countless hours of a childhood summer
her ears are aboard the U.S.S. Dallas
her spine’s just arrived at Whispering Oaks
the back of her head is laying bricks
while her toes taunt evolution
and her left thumb makes a break for it
her first two chakras are lost in the woods making their way to grandma’s
her tongue is busy making pot pies
while her teeth collect dust in a box in Russia (Stalin never being able to believe for sure)
and part of her heart, yes, is in San Francisco
February 16, 2010
or less we’re bound
to roll down the river
to skate the ice flows
our antics unimpressive
not the less
for the scraped knees
and the bee stings
the hesitations if you will
you must see
we must do
whether for or against
the to and fro
the sinister lip
and the rough-hewn jaw
the tears inexplicable
the monologue cliché
we must collude once more
our dizzying collisions
appropriate if dire
we must celebrate
we must chance despair
February 3, 2010
Well-polished nonstandard-sized gilt thumbtack
seeks similarly shiny furniture polish
for good times and conversation,
late-summer solstice rain dances need not apply.
Post-December sun warriors seek employment
with crisply laced herringbone corsets
for mutually beneficial hierarchal repartee
on a contractual basis.
Disavowed potentate desperate to move
reprobate Hottentots of erstwhile trysts
with dames of repute. No offer too low.
Three-hundred thousand boxed lunches
offered as silent protest to personages
of noisy redistribution. Each comes individually
decorated by chipboard wielding clip artists.
Noisy-headed Swiss-cheese maker
in search of like-minded waltz composer
for collaboration in construing an
effectively convincing dénouement.
January 4, 2010
Each finger stings, cracked by the pushing and pulling
of quills shaken free from Rothschild’s porcupine
in the crisply verdant world to the south of south.
In and out, dying red the laces of spun perle cotton,
grown in the desert heat for fortitude against doubt,
binding eight panels of silk from the inhabitants of
the emperor’s private white mulberry trees gathered
from his tea by his long-fingered sly-smiled geishas.
The erstwhile queen, herself, donates her passé
farthingale stays as ribs for the canopy.
Gently attached by notched baleen, discovered by
Yankee whalers lost in the vagaries of time,
to the shaft, hand-carved from the eminent posts
of ash trees blown asunder by unseasonable tsunamis.
Waxed for the elements using the personal hives
of the blind Swiss scientist Francois Huber,
lacquered for the laity with the whispered secrets of the Orient,
blessed as beautiful by the Voodoo priest and his golden Christ
and the asylum escapees bobbing their heads
yes, yes, yes, not since big blue-skyed Nut herself, yes
So is borne, the sacred umbrella.