Sunday, December 30, 2012

Butter Dish

Darling, I now have a butter dish
that is shaped like a cow

                      - Leonard Cohen

"That one was for you."

I wrote it on my wall
And held it in my heart.
So now that I've remembered it -
I plan to use it in my art.

My bookcase.

I can't read anything you ever mentioned --
What I want right now -
Is to throw Pynchon's 760 pages
At your head --
And hide half of my books -
Because even their worn out spines
Remind me of you.

Maybe lovers.

Oh how I wish I could erase those conversations we had -
About how maybe we were lovers -
As you kissed me again --
                You fucking jerk.

Thursday, December 27, 2012

Is This What You Wanted


And I am tired
Of people telling me -
That I will never be
As old as they.

It seems my age is to be subtracted
And never added
Because I am -
Just --
Naive -
Immature -

As if it matters
In the end --
We are all just numbers
On a page.

Oh, to be ageless.

Arm chair.

I'll take the stairs.

With guidance.

I noticed that you were not there yesterday -
And that I used to write to you more --
But I still feel like you are here, just -
Slipping further into the background
So that I may take the wheel.

I hate you -

   And I love you --
           (So thank you for teaching me what Leonard Cohen was getting at --
                                                                                You jerk).

Sunday, August 5, 2012



g can


the m




    - e.e. cummings

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

My Main Street Boyfriend.

I saw him this morning. 
We said hello.

He asked if he knew me.
He said that he wasn’t allowed to touch people that he didn’t know.

He said he was waiting for the postman.
He asked if he knew me.
He said the postman was coming.
He pointed out the time.

He said everyone knew his Dad.
His Dad had said that he wasn’t allowed to touch people that he didn’t know.
He asked if he knew me.

He said it was his brother’s birthday today.
He asked if the postman was on his way.

I said I had to walk to the station.
He asked if he knew me.

He said he was always repeating himself.
I wished him a good day.
And continued walking.

He asked if the postman was on his way.

Monday, May 21, 2012

Buttoned Up.

The Silent Pool

I have discovered finally to-day
This home that I have called my own
Is built of straw and clay, 
Not, as I thought, of stone.
I wonder who the architect could be, 
What builder made it of that stuff;
When it was left to me
The house seemed good enough.
Yet, slowly, as its roof began to sink, 
And as its walls began to split,
And I began to think, 
Then I suspected it;
But did not clearly know until today
That it was only built of straw and clay.
Now I will go about on my affairs
As though I had no cares,
Nor ever think at all
How one day soon that house is bound to fall,
So when I'm told the wind has blown it down
I may have something else to call my own.
I have enquired who was the architect,
What builder did erect.
I'm told they did design
Million and million others all like mine, 
And argument with all men ends the same:--
It is impossible to fix the blame.
I am so glad that underneath our talk
Our minds together walk.
We argue all the while, 
But down below our argument we smile,
We have our houses, but we understand
That our real property is common land.
At night we often go
With happy comrades to that real estate, 
Where dreams in beauty grow,
And every man enjoys a common fate.
At night in sleep one flows
Below the surface of all argument;
The brain, with all it knows,
Is covered by the waters of content.
But when the dawn appears
Brain rises to the surface with a start,
And, waking, quickly sneers
At the old natural brightness of the heart.
Oh, that a man might choose
To live unconsciously like beast or bird,
And our clear thought not lose
Its beauty when we turn it into word.
Those quarrelings between my brain and heart
(In which I'd take no part)
Pursue their violent course
Corrupting my most vital force
So that my natural property is spent
In fees to keep alive their argument.
Look downward in the silent pool:
The weeds cling to the ground they love;
They live so quietly, are so cool;
They do not need to think, or move.
Look down in the unconscious mind:
There everything is quiet too
And deep and cool, and you will find
Calm growth and nothing hard to do, 
And nothing that need trouble you.

                      - Harold Monro

Monday, May 7, 2012


God, it is good to wake
     in the middle of the night
          and smoke a cigarette
with You,
     while outside, the buildings sleep
          in geometric clumps,
the factories rest – replenishing
     themselves, not so unlike
          the rosebushes or
eucalyptus groves,
     gathering power
          for one more thrust tomorrow.
For now, 
     the streetlights blossom
          above the boulevard,
a lone truck on the darkened bridge
     transports its spark across the gap,
          the way your fingertip
ignited Michaelangelo to think,
     long ago,
          that You were there.
One does so much
     building up, so much feverish
but really, it is all aimed
     at a condition of exhausted
          simplicity, isn't it?
We don't love things.

So this hour of the night
     is precious,
          when the curtains swell like lungs
and the world is full of bodies
     falling from the precipice
          of sleep.
For seven hours,
     maybe eight, they don't
          remember how to suffer
or how to run from it.
     They are like the stars,
          or potted plants, or salty oceanic waves.
And do You like this brand of cigarette?
     And are You comfortable?
          It is so quiet now,
The streetlights shine.
     And I have noticed
          how the strands of smoke,
even in no hint of wind,
     still decorate the air
          in cursive braided loops and swirls.
No, it is not a signature.
     But it is beautiful,
          and it is inexplicable,
and it is good.
                               - Tony Hoagland

Sunday, May 6, 2012

The Hum.

A sequestered frenzy
Makes it hard to feel
The hum of silence.

Thank you
For reminding me
To let it in.


The Song of the Drunkard

It was not in me. It moved in and out.
When I dared to stop it, the wine won out.
(What it was, I no longer remember.)
The wine then offered this and offered that, 
till I became dependent upon him,
I, fool!

Now I am part of his game, as he throws me
around in utter contempt, and surely he will
lose me this day to that scavenger: death.
When death wins me, soiled card that I am,
he will use me only to scratch his sordid scabs
and toss me away into the mire.

                              - Rainer Maria Rilke