Either Way

Sometimes
I bury the pen
firmly in my chest
and carve
through bone and skin
pouring life out
to the floor
in buckets.

Other times
I jam that same pen
down my throat
and waggle it
well past the tonsils
sending a jet
of putrid stink
out into the world.

Either way,
it's poetry.

suffering

the poet saw suffering walk by her window

she rushed open the door and yelled

come back come back

suffering knew not to turn around

and the poet continued to suffer

for not having suffered at all

I Write Poems

Unapologetically.
And they never rhyme.
And sometimes they don't make sense.
Maybe they're about noone.
Maybe they're about you.
Maybe they're just thoughts
that pick at my scabby brain
forcing me to commit them
to living form.
Words simultaneously nothing
and everything.
All things cherished
and maligned.
All things deified
and demonized.
All.
Things.

I write poems.
It's simple, really.

Ghost of Words

Lost

between my thumb

and my index finger

are an ocean of dots and crosses,

deserted in some far away nowhere,

once so close to being rescued,

screaming, waving,

convulsively shaking

for a home

never realized,

left with a whimper

and then

with nothing,

not even a lingering memory

of what could have been.

Starving

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

- Mark Strand

I'm starving!

Dickinson--

In the name of your Bee--

Your Butterfly--

And your Breeze--

Feed me!

I'll need utensils, Mr. Simic:

a bird's foot, straight from hell,

if you please.

Ezra, oh learned sir,

I'll order 300 Chinese characters,

with a dash of Latin,

topped with Greek...

...on second thought,

that would be much too much even for me.

I'd rather dine in Sylvia's kitchen.

Unfortunately (with all due respect),

There's not much cooking there that I can eat.

I know! I'll have some of Grandfather Whitman.

Let me suck thy long, pale locomotive so that I can lick my lips, fully pleased!

battery

We often fight
and you become violent.
Beating my sensibilities.
Your words
and their lack
purple my flesh.
I leave.
You're no good for me.
But after a few days
the words become
more plentiful.
I miss you.
I come back
to your waiting arms
both of us knowing
that the cycle
will repeat.

Medium

There are times
when I think I've outgrown you.
I squeeze myself
into your casing.
I look foolish.
Every embarrasing detail
on display.

Then there are times
when I think you are too big.
I'm lost in your bulk.
A child draped in fabric.
foolish again.
Either way
you just don't fit
me
the way you used to.

Voice

For too long,
This block of marble sat stagnant,
But now chisel has been put to stone.
Blind to a vision,
Each strike of the mallet
Chips away unrefined rock,
Building sediment on the floor.
The intent remains to sculpt
Until some form takes shape—
No matter how long it takes—
Even if the only admiring eyes
Are the tearful artist’s own.

passion (less)

We used to embrace.
Staring at each other.
Lost in our love.

But our moods soured.
All things end,
and when the pen dried
I started sleeping
on the couch.

We'd pass in the hallway.
speaking, but not
saying much.
Sharing long, cold breakfasts
Silent.

You will leave.
And I will be alone.
And forever reminisce
about the days
when I wrapped myself
in the velvet comfort
of your words.

Starvation

My belly long lost

any energy to whimper,

let alone growl.

There is no more ink to feed on:

a decade of poetic feasting

now bone dry.

Still I scratch the motions,

thinning the tip of my pen:

a torturing reminder of what has been lost.

Blank Page

Trapped inside the lines.

My cell, four corners tight.

Claustrophobic in its emptiness.

No window to peer out.

No door to even attempt a break.

Just me. Naked.

Dressed only with a blank stare.

And a watch.

Ticking away at the infinitum of time.

no more poetry

no more poetry's
left in my pen
its tip etched dry
so I pick up a crayon
scribbling second grade
Seussisms
'til these thirsty days
tip-toe idly by.

words

I think in poems.
A life measured out
in stanzas.
Meted in
pentameter.

A coffee cup
becomes an ode.
A blade of grass:
a sonnet.
The drab world
painted in infinite hues,
with a blundering
fury of strokes.

but all the while,
as summer begins it's
bright ascent
and the Earth flips
and wobbles about,
I languish
over
words.

Sustenance

I eat my words.

They taste bitter,

like burnt wormwood

months passed due.

The taste dresses my face

dumb: squinting; nose wrinkled;

teeth clenched as if posing

for a smile two moments too long.

Yes. I suffer for my words.

Yet still, with gag reflex checked,

I open wide for seconds

and for a slice of stale dessert.

the poet

Never trust a poet.
They have, of course, a total
Disregard for punctuation; among
Other things.

Never love a poet.
They root their words like a crooked spine.
And their secrets—
A set of Chinese boxes,
Falling and folding into something larger, or smaller,
Depending on how they look at it.

Never open the box of a poet.
Some contain fiction.
Some contain truth.
Some contain them.
Some contain her.
All contain you.

Cider Press

I've been told that there's an orchard.
in our minds.
Though, I've never seen it myself.
It's full of fruit.
succulent.
carbuncular.

And there is a press, for cider.
This machine,
a demon,
grinds,
rips,
pulverizes.
Turning these sweet
angels,
to disguting piles of pulp.
And juice.

Yet,
the cider is magnificent
sending devils of sweetness
dancing through the body.
Synapses flash and sizzle.
Unwhole parts within us fill.

And we look at the pulp,
the debris,
the once-beautiful horror,
and we know
that the product
is always worth
the pain.

Appendix

They say
that the appendix
is useless.
Vestigial.
Original function
long forgotten.

It tries to help,
but just gets in the way.
And occasionally,
It whines.
Begging for attention,
it grows fat.
Becomes an irritant,
and is removed.
Leaving only a scar.

I sit.
In my warm room.
Staring at the
mirror of blank pages
in my lap
and wonder,
"Am I an appendix?"

Old Friend

Where did you go, Poetry?
I knew you well.
We had late night conversations,
in the backyard,
half-drunk on Pabst and ego.


We agonized together
Crafting sloppy stanzas.
Went on long hot car trips,
and finished each others sentences.

Then I lost you.
Are you buried under deep
New England snow?
Or wandering dingy California
Supermarkets?

I'm bombarded by images
of psuedo-celebrities.
Forced to care
about teen music sensations
and I forget about you.
My friend.

But every so often
I read a piece of mail
or hear a Mascis tune
wind through my ears.
I see a clever alliterative phrase.
And I think "hello there old friend".

Sisyphus, Possessed

The poet
always stares
skyward, scrambling
for that next Word that kicks
her down to her hands and knees,
left to crawl, blindly scraping
at hard earth with broken
fingernails.

Her eyes,
mirrored only
by Sisyphus. Possessed.
Always pushing up.
Never reaching
the summit.

Poem-O-Matic

Add seven syllable line.

Insert trope here—be discreet.

Try six beats and a rhyme.

Remember: Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Continue with form above

Or craft a subtle conceit,

But avoid clichés like “blind love.”

Don’t forget: Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Break meter with a poignant thought.

Pen a gaudy pun—be witty.

Correct the errors you’ve caught.

Now, submit to antiquity.