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Showing posts from May, 2011

Safe

Years have passed.
But it hasn't gotten easier
To say what it was
That I couldn't reach.
You were too beautiful
To walk alone.
So I kept you safe
On the brown city streets
That threatened to absorb you,
A colorful drop
Of windblown frailty.
I knelt beside you
And held up your hands
To explain their beauty.
It was the first time I touched you,
And you smiled
As if you shouldn't.

Walnut Street

I'm walking on Walnut Street,
Where brick sidewalks
Back the office towers
Onto their foundations.
I'm squinting at the blue
So vast it tells the ocean
What color to be,
And I bump into strangers,
Who remind me of friends
I never bump into.
I'd much rather be sad
Than depressed.
Sadness has a heart.
There's no drug for it.
You can feel good about that.
But I forget sometimes
To just be lonely
And call it by its name.

Nomade

This isn't what I meant to say.
It was like this,
But the words were meant to be better,
And the motivations purer.
This is not the day to say it at all,
But I'm prone to oversleep.
I am the Nomade.
I'm a man made of letters;
The potential for every great word
And every combination thereof,
Faceless and fearless,
Surrounded by princes and brides,
Rulers of their nationless kingdoms.
The absentee sun arrives
And bears down on my folded knees,
Dispersing my shadow
In a membrane of verse.
People pass like drifting flowers,
Casting off pollen
And other bits of their lives.
I am the Nomade,
A man of iron and irony.
I never leave this place.
My brethren scatter to the corners
Break off more corners
And scatter again.
I have no use for locomotion.
Everything that does not come from me
Comes to me.
I am anticipation of all knowing.
I am the great driving force
Of lesser creation
I am the Nomade.
Step too close and I surround you.
I glitter in your sight forever.
I am the house of …

Ritual

Everyone does this sometime.
Everyone like me
Sits in the hippest cafe
And leans over his notepad,
Believing inspiration will come
To choke poetry from the glistening
Channel of creation
In his twitching pen hand.
The coffee is good,
But that is not important.
If it were a bitter brew,
I would pretend not to object,
In case someone is looking.
Is that mocha too hip for you?
I can handle it.
I mean it's fine.
I don't dare look around,
Raise my eyes to meet
What might be other eyes,
What might be the harsh scrutiny
Of youthful self-assurance,
Pierced lips chuckling into the chai.
I just lean over my notepad,
Silver pen twitching in my hand
And listen to the invisible clicking
Of the amplifiers;
Music I wouldn't listen to elsewhere,
But that's how good it is.
I came here believing
The channel was blocked,
Afraid to uncap my pen knowing
Nothing would happen next.
But I wonder if there are eyes
On my table, on this shimmering quill,
The eyes of a young hopeful,
Who came here t…

May Day

I only remember giving out the baskets
And receiving them
When I was a kid.
The last one I remember
Was when a mysterious ginger girl
Dropped one off on our porch,
Spun about, and fled
Back to her mother's car.

No one got a good look at her,
And we couldn't find a name
In the basket.
My mother conjectured
That it was Stacey McGill,
Who was in my class,
And that the basket was for me.

I tentatively nibbled on a piece of candy
In the basket
While it was being discussed,
But finally
A slip of paper was found
With my brother's name,
And I had to give it up.

I knew the ginger girl we saw
Was not Stacey McGill.