stupid question

stupid question

you sit in an armchair
living room lit by citronella candles outside
i see your silhouette as you raise blackberry brandy to your lips
liquid darker than north pole winter nights
slides to your stomach, your brain
your lips fade into the shadows as you smile

"who is your favorite poet?" i ask
completely aware that's an impossible question
and your lips disappear again in darkness

"ah, tiffany," you say
but leave my question
floating the air like a dragonfly whisper

Don't assume my poems are facts

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the confusion that readers often have with the persona of a poem and the writer of a poem. There are some subjects that make people assume that the persona and the writer are identical. But this is not so. I'd request that when you read my poems, you don't assume I'm writing about myself. Sometimes I am, but usually I am only thinking of myself in some sort of abstract way. Perhaps an emotion I'm feel sparks an image or sometimes it's even something as simple as a smell triggering an emotion, which builds to images. Poems may hold truths (I certainly hope mine do), but they aren't necessarily factual.

learning the art of sleeping around

a cloud of sex and cigarettes
pervades my memory of my mother--
her toothy grin like a drunken Cheshire Cat
with a man in the background
saying "hey baby" to her
twelve year old daughter

turtleneck(ing)

underneath my panties drawer
is one I've labelled "hickey shirts"
for those weary one-night-stand
mornings that leave me bruised
and battered wondering whatever compelled me
to give of myself so freely

ownness drive

ownness drive

headlights alluminate snow stretched curves
street sign says "FORGET-ME-NOT CT"
--that's where I'd convict you
of flirting with me one night at a party
only to leave me imagining you face
stroking it with my memories,
alone in a cold king-sized bed
or during those quiet moments of days that last too long
(the nights are even longer)
with tears uncried, bubbling at the lids
and yearned desires kept safe in a box

happy days stuffed with smiles
yet you remain in the corner of my thoughts
an empty room blasting artificial noise

A preface to my new poem

When I asked my roommate if I could take a picture of her door and explained that I had written a poem about her and her boyfriend, it kind of creeped her out. If you read this, I'm sorry! It was meant to be a sweet poem and not at all creepy.

a poem that gives its own answer

morning nap

i met my roommate's boyfriend on the stairs
his eyes still crusted with sleep
he slid off his shoes
set down his bag
and walked to the room of my dozing cohabitator

as he closed the door and climbed in her bed
i wonder
what makes a man do that?
leave his own nest
warm from his own safty
and curl up
joined in the arms of another

one night drunken haze soup tears in the eyes of a vomitting beauty one night intoxicants line the tables moved out of the way for cards revelry instances to be unremembered camera flashes of photos camera too slow to catch the images of spinning bodies whirling flowing through the night of drunken haze soup

Seaside carousel

memories of childhood
shiny lights and glossy paint
in bright, bold hues
swirling magically as if in some fantastical dream

the Seaside Carousel
a monument to childish dreams
cotton candy afternoons
and raspberry snow cones in the sun

A crappy poem about Burgerville (that made me really hungery)

Okay, so I'm trying to write a poem every day and I don't have a lot of photos to choose from to inspire me. Until I take more pictures, my blog is going to have a lot of crappy poems. Perhaps I should be spending my afternoon taking pictures instead.



Burgerville

euuummm! gooy cheese on that hot, hot burger
juicy tomato and pickles ooze out the corners of the mouth
spilling onto strategically placed napkins that
once in a while will fail

toe tapping jukebox in the background
swishing to fifties music
sucking down a chocolate milkshake that taste like God prepared it Himself
(of course He didn't.)

I don't want a slice of Heaven.
The portion would be too meager, too poor
for my elevated tastes

An ocean poem

Off-season beach adventure

peace and serenity--

is squishing your toes in damp ocean sand
on a stretch of shore
held captive in marshmallow fog

is scraping off sand granules
clinging to feet numbed by winter waves
and knowing you are part of nature still

Current blogging idea

I've had a new idea about how to go about writing poems. Rather than stealing the photos submitted to Jones, I'm going to take pictures myself and use them to inspire poems. This way, all the work will be my own, which I think is better than collaborating with Jones. It does, however, sort of nullify my blog title, but I think that's okay. The poems can be in the style of my previous Jones poems. Okay. That resolves the title to my satisfaction.

A new post is here!

I'm back. Today I wrote a poem on the bus and took a picture of what the poem was about. Unfortunately, the software for my new digital camera is in my luggage, which greyhound lost...somewhere. Anyway, when and if they find my stuff I will post the picture that accompanies this poem.



I-29

snowscape through grit spectacled windows,
smothered by swirling snow tufts of dying weeds
grasp skyward for a touch of saving sun
but it's burried by clouds

I'm glad you're not my home, North Dakota