raindrops trying not to stub my toe though I love poetry
Tag Archives: Poetry
The New Sound
those faithful plants I neglected still shelter my [redacted] even after the party is long gone the conversation buried in coarse sand
you mentioned that the fashion this year will be nothing but zippers and mismatched shoes so leave me out of it and let me sleep in the sweet green morning calls dropping dew
but at my back I sometimes hear Noel Fielding reciting bad poetry in my ear and
perhaps the goal is to write something that no forget it yes I see you noticed it too but went back to your puzzle so thanks for that
long shadows make
us giants in late August
a little cool mixed in just
enough to dream of
pumpkin falling leaf
crunch scent cicada
-less nights the full
moon through bare trees
on the last page of the notebook
steadied by a thick
stack of New Yorkers
the pen
but the dog in her cuteness
the urge for coffee what kind of
is that a
the dishwasher needs unloading
and the heat flows out
from my fingers over
ever higher rooftops
I say you because I can’t
say me
I mean I’d rather not the little
electric shock when we
lie the air in the room
not quite light or true
why not invent another I by which
I mean you and sacrifice
this it for its shortcomings
and oceans
of weaknesses but
maybe it’s not as
dramatic as all that have you
stopped to consider well go on
what were you going to say
Letter in Which I Break Up With My Imaginary Girlfriend
I’m not even sure sometimes why I open the notebook in the cicada-littered summer dumpster-diving raccoons running out
of hyphens at least the morning cool decent coffee the old stump finally yanked out but this bad egg I have to swallow this ache I can’t attach a story to and where do you break
off but that’s the default I suppose if we know the well is running dry we feel guilty about every sip but forget about the rain
and sure it’s my own dumb fault drowning on land unsure how to shout for help so
what I want to say is that I’m glad you stayed on the track I couldn’t find and maybe someday you may think of me and laugh but in a good way
True False Starts
But maybe.
That book and the twist they rave about.
Grit in your shoes from the famous shoreline.
How to cook that dish we loved from the Thai place.
Onion chili cashew something with good pain.
Not in the dark windows at the mall or
medieval bling of those other windows.
But still.
Footsteps of others who.
One day long ago a.
Did I maybe.
Watch the birds stalk small fish as the sun sinks.
The revolving door of breath.
Even this headache.
What difference will one more restart
Carefully
late in spring it creeps
in a spider has had a
thousand children in the corner
I discover one day looking
for a salve for this pain in
the twinge in the like you
want to hear about my
latest diagnosis anyway
they assured me that the sound
of splintering bone is normal
for this time of year but don’t
worry about it try this new game
Small Bones of the Feet
Turning the corner
but it was long ago
the pen feels funny
turning the corner at the
end of the parking lot
where the water
abruptly ends or
starts a marshy
spot long-growing
green a few small herons
waking maybe a dream
of clouds of silver fish
fading as they begin the long
stalk and the poem just sort of
ends there though I wanted
to talk about childhood homes
and the deep wound
of contentment we carry
on our hunts
if we’re lucky but
wait do you
hear that new
bird calling
the trick
is to let
your handwriting
grow
so small
that it is
mistaken
for the internal
monologues
of ants
-from Talking Too Fast