There's new music rippling about
and rejections popping up
a fresh cup of coffee
to help supply calm
excitements
through investigations
into the bold 1980s car
bold lines
that keep popping up
everywhere
heavy lines in all the nooks
and also into
the linkages woven here
and now I know
that walking into the kitchen
won't help and won't change
anything
though I did manage
to make it outside
to move my car across the street
which was a start
and just up the way
was a little school
with a play-set
with wood-chips
with eees nnns vvvs yyys
scribbled into their faces
and a yarn tele
tethered to the knobbles of a tree
it rang so I ran
and picked up the line
to hear pssst pssshhhshssh
and I was confused
I thought I'm dreaming?
but pierce sure enough in my ear
I'm not dreaming
they're all playing family
(I hope my sister's ok)
so I put my arms straight out
and said hey I can play.
© 2008, Jared Linzmeier
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
If We Wanted To
we could talk about the magic out there
and about the times of waking up
new year's nights and days
how maybe that sets the tone
and we could talk about walking
or how to pick a good calendar
or how I'd come to visit her
and vice-versa
and we would peddle and giggle
and trip (kisses on the cheek)
I don't know hows
and we could talk about the birds in the sky on a windy day.
© 2007, Jared Linzmeier
and about the times of waking up
new year's nights and days
how maybe that sets the tone
and we could talk about walking
or how to pick a good calendar
or how I'd come to visit her
and vice-versa
and we would peddle and giggle
and trip (kisses on the cheek)
I don't know hows
and we could talk about the birds in the sky on a windy day.
© 2007, Jared Linzmeier
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Two Stripes
Two Stripes Were Minding Their Business…
and then a plaid accident.
our likelihoods crossed paths and
I tucked
tucked
tucked
and rolled
and when I arose tot tot
tot tot
frogs bit against the pink
tin bottoms of rabbits
and a chorus of harps laid loose
and laid claim
the frogs blossomed and their petals clapped
clap clap clap
and I snip
cut a ringlet from my dangling hangling
curls
to barter for a high five bam and I said ‘yeah’
with excitement and was so excited
snap snap
clip clip
yay yay
but all the baby whua whua blue in the high sky
got mad and all started whining whining whining sprink whine sprinkling and they seemed oh so sad oh so sad with an !
pop
and they clumped together, all the baby blues, and their mothers above them in the sky
shook their scarlet fingers in shame
while the frogs finished their tin snacks
and the sun began to shine.
© 2007, Jared Linzmeier
and then a plaid accident.
our likelihoods crossed paths and
I tucked
tucked
tucked
and rolled
and when I arose tot tot
tot tot
frogs bit against the pink
tin bottoms of rabbits
and a chorus of harps laid loose
and laid claim
the frogs blossomed and their petals clapped
clap clap clap
and I snip
cut a ringlet from my dangling hangling
curls
to barter for a high five bam and I said ‘yeah’
with excitement and was so excited
snap snap
clip clip
yay yay
but all the baby whua whua blue in the high sky
got mad and all started whining whining whining sprink whine sprinkling and they seemed oh so sad oh so sad with an !
pop
and they clumped together, all the baby blues, and their mothers above them in the sky
shook their scarlet fingers in shame
while the frogs finished their tin snacks
and the sun began to shine.
© 2007, Jared Linzmeier
Thursday, December 13, 2007
decks shifting
Decks Shifting
You understand what I mean when I say
wow that went fast
you know what I’m intending to be
when we hug
so these, and other things, make me a poet.
Where I come from it’s cold and hot and seasons rub fiercely
and sledding is a thing that’s essential
and I spent nights with snow stinging my face
holding my mom’s waist down the hill in our front yard
I shot arrows in the fall and slipped on ice in the spring
and have loved and still am loving
and now I live in L.A.
and I am still loving
There’ve been coffee
and cigarettes and asthma doesn’t appreciate that
but someone does.
I’ve alluded to problems with alcohol
and have had the privilege of
turmoil in the country
and words baffling me
and measley divorce.
Jumping thoughts and, simply, attempts at simplifying and capturing scenes.
I live in a world where honor is present.
There is honor
humor
in the ways of things.
and a piece of lint
in my beard
My fancy is windows down
and lines that strike
like ‘this is a hard, stolen land’
I have a threaded history of pine needles
and bee stings and roasted chipmunks
it’s the truth
and am capable of
not thinking
before acting
tickling
My shaking hands can’t stop
and my family…
stitching the two together
after wearing them apart.
and I’m sometimes a branded man
and othertimes squinting with so much day in my eyes.
© 2007, Jared Linzmeier
You understand what I mean when I say
wow that went fast
you know what I’m intending to be
when we hug
so these, and other things, make me a poet.
Where I come from it’s cold and hot and seasons rub fiercely
and sledding is a thing that’s essential
and I spent nights with snow stinging my face
holding my mom’s waist down the hill in our front yard
I shot arrows in the fall and slipped on ice in the spring
and have loved and still am loving
and now I live in L.A.
and I am still loving
There’ve been coffee
and cigarettes and asthma doesn’t appreciate that
but someone does.
I’ve alluded to problems with alcohol
and have had the privilege of
turmoil in the country
and words baffling me
and measley divorce.
Jumping thoughts and, simply, attempts at simplifying and capturing scenes.
I live in a world where honor is present.
There is honor
humor
in the ways of things.
and a piece of lint
in my beard
My fancy is windows down
and lines that strike
like ‘this is a hard, stolen land’
I have a threaded history of pine needles
and bee stings and roasted chipmunks
it’s the truth
and am capable of
not thinking
before acting
tickling
My shaking hands can’t stop
and my family…
stitching the two together
after wearing them apart.
and I’m sometimes a branded man
and othertimes squinting with so much day in my eyes.
© 2007, Jared Linzmeier
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
inside today
This poppiness is pop pop and jump jump… but anyhow it was nice playing Scrabble last night and I’m thinking not thinking being happy and jittering around the house and then I grabbed my nutshell and spent some time inside it remembering today through the thrills of last year and taking steps back to appreciate and throwing little pebbles across arboretums across time zones and across images of hugs.
a draft for a poem about poetry
It isn’t a race
it isn’t a struggle
for words out there
it isn’t saying it
before someone else
and it needn’t be rushed
or explosions
like sifting through the madness for the word, the line, the way no
no it can be keeping the music
from going away
and ensuring hums
and looks and insurance
to cover foreign nights
it needn’t be laziness
or relying on ambiguity
or hearts going out
and it needn’t be a song
and it isn’t wishing to be heard (is it?)
and it sure is easy to make it more than it is
and it isn’t pressing buttons (yes it is)
and it is a source for embellishment
and beauty but not envy
and an aid for finding smiles when stumbling along.
it isn’t a struggle
for words out there
it isn’t saying it
before someone else
and it needn’t be rushed
or explosions
like sifting through the madness for the word, the line, the way no
no it can be keeping the music
from going away
and ensuring hums
and looks and insurance
to cover foreign nights
it needn’t be laziness
or relying on ambiguity
or hearts going out
and it needn’t be a song
and it isn’t wishing to be heard (is it?)
and it sure is easy to make it more than it is
and it isn’t pressing buttons (yes it is)
and it is a source for embellishment
and beauty but not envy
and an aid for finding smiles when stumbling along.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Hanging to Dry
Baby's a year old now and I want to cry.
Too many necks stuck out against the sides of books and too much sunshine in a city without brakes..
'I'm so lonesome I could cry.'
Silhouettes in pictures, grainy with time, aged like patchwork quilts.
'There are places I'll remember all my life.'
The timing of those weekends built bricks into our hearts.
Somewhere out there is a dream and somewhere out there is a fear of bad dreams coming true, worry-me-bads coming awfully true.
Uncle Danny's slowly grinding coffee and Grandma's smelling it and making phone calls.
Believe me, Pablo, when I say that the assistant sometimes has it better off and, that said, I'm glad to help you along and to help find faith in 'A project is just that, son, and someday needs be done.'
Sundays are slow steps and eggs and a concentration on lifting from one to the next, slow steps, and longer minutes.
Baby's a year old now and I want the best.
An assistant to the pull of love can be the proximity of it or the ties of distance also.
No country for young children.
Just as much as No Country For Old Men.
Just suit them all up in boots and maybe they'll meet somewhere between Laredo and Los Angeles.
Together they can taste the sameness of weeks of bread eaten without much else on breaks not much easier than...
Carried on during the grey times, discovering aspects of what needs be done and bleeding codes of ethics.
Too many necks stuck out against the sides of books and too much sunshine in a city without brakes..
'I'm so lonesome I could cry.'
Silhouettes in pictures, grainy with time, aged like patchwork quilts.
'There are places I'll remember all my life.'
The timing of those weekends built bricks into our hearts.
Somewhere out there is a dream and somewhere out there is a fear of bad dreams coming true, worry-me-bads coming awfully true.
Uncle Danny's slowly grinding coffee and Grandma's smelling it and making phone calls.
Believe me, Pablo, when I say that the assistant sometimes has it better off and, that said, I'm glad to help you along and to help find faith in 'A project is just that, son, and someday needs be done.'
Sundays are slow steps and eggs and a concentration on lifting from one to the next, slow steps, and longer minutes.
Baby's a year old now and I want the best.
An assistant to the pull of love can be the proximity of it or the ties of distance also.
No country for young children.
Just as much as No Country For Old Men.
Just suit them all up in boots and maybe they'll meet somewhere between Laredo and Los Angeles.
Together they can taste the sameness of weeks of bread eaten without much else on breaks not much easier than...
Carried on during the grey times, discovering aspects of what needs be done and bleeding codes of ethics.
Friday, November 9, 2007
the waste i found in a cup
Let me tell you about strands of legacies.
There’s a fairy tale in my field of vision blocking the fatigue of passing days and in IT there are some castles (depending on the day), but more often than not it’s somber wood buildings sort of resort-town-like with the aging shingles and that feeling in the air of getting away.
I think we could all use a bit of restoration.
I’m updating my head with charisma and visions of new me(s). Check back later.
At a café on Sunset, in the heart of Hollywood, a group discusses the “fires in the West” and “I’ve got a tickle in my throat.” Luckily they’ve found family in the most unlikely places…
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here conducting experiments and a study of putting together examples: see How The Other Half Lives? It was bad, very bad… And Blackwell’s could be an analogy.
I’m guilty of the grease on my hands and wishing for more and I’m guilty of letting in compliments about age [although it complements some other things, which I’d rather not let in again], but also calls to mind Yay yay for Christmas at Grandma’s house and the little tea sets and trees and ornaments forgotten about lost in time under her bed “She’s not the type to need them.”
Downstairs the tv’s playing old-timey shows and the realm of possibility can be said to be spinning.
They’re all together, finally, and the night is nice. Here friends are family.. but then the phone calls strike it down and spread the distance because the friends, some of them have feelers and are using them for comparative advantage analyses in unfortunate ways one friend is thinking how nice and another is thinking why hasn’t Adrian called back and another is somewhere else and another has at least excused herself outside for a call but oh well, advice given is attempts at getting it it’s working theories out and stripping the board-game collection down to Scrabble, Sorry, and Chess.
And I’m guilty of living a layered day and of missing a love and several others and I’m guilty of seriousness in honesty and in getting to the questions of the shaping of a poor child and I’m guilty of restraining myself sometimes in public because, unfortunately, the shingles aren’t spilling from the roofs today, but with a shirt like this I’m capable of hiding and in a place like this I’m more at ease because wood has a nice scent [that counts] and with all the blushes of the speeches being made I’ll chip in by being a witness and bring a package from my side and then we carry the streamers to celebrate the openings and we’re there for successes and for making the pictures worth hanging on walls in auntie’s deserted frames on ambitious days of catching up.
“Sesenta y uno” and louder “seseNTA y UNO.”
“O, that’s us.”
My “horse” trigger is comprised of a few components: mom, the memory of the weekend of seeing the Science of Sleep, not much to do with westerns.
Back on Sunset, “What time is it?” --- “We should get back then.” --- “Ok, we’ll get back soon. Ok, so that angle.. I want to get the window in the shot.” -- “And maybe we should catch the eyes, too.”
The Waste I found in a cup is a place
Of Land where we can read intent
And consider the illusion
Of structure [is a thought had and then, in stacks of shelves in poor lighting in metal that smells like metal and wood that smells old and rows of books that, collectively, smell like contained ghosts, a tired one begins to compose a thesis].
There’s a fairy tale in my field of vision blocking the fatigue of passing days and in IT there are some castles (depending on the day), but more often than not it’s somber wood buildings sort of resort-town-like with the aging shingles and that feeling in the air of getting away.
I think we could all use a bit of restoration.
I’m updating my head with charisma and visions of new me(s). Check back later.
At a café on Sunset, in the heart of Hollywood, a group discusses the “fires in the West” and “I’ve got a tickle in my throat.” Luckily they’ve found family in the most unlikely places…
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here conducting experiments and a study of putting together examples: see How The Other Half Lives? It was bad, very bad… And Blackwell’s could be an analogy.
I’m guilty of the grease on my hands and wishing for more and I’m guilty of letting in compliments about age [although it complements some other things, which I’d rather not let in again], but also calls to mind Yay yay for Christmas at Grandma’s house and the little tea sets and trees and ornaments forgotten about lost in time under her bed “She’s not the type to need them.”
Downstairs the tv’s playing old-timey shows and the realm of possibility can be said to be spinning.
They’re all together, finally, and the night is nice. Here friends are family.. but then the phone calls strike it down and spread the distance because the friends, some of them have feelers and are using them for comparative advantage analyses in unfortunate ways one friend is thinking how nice and another is thinking why hasn’t Adrian called back and another is somewhere else and another has at least excused herself outside for a call but oh well, advice given is attempts at getting it it’s working theories out and stripping the board-game collection down to Scrabble, Sorry, and Chess.
And I’m guilty of living a layered day and of missing a love and several others and I’m guilty of seriousness in honesty and in getting to the questions of the shaping of a poor child and I’m guilty of restraining myself sometimes in public because, unfortunately, the shingles aren’t spilling from the roofs today, but with a shirt like this I’m capable of hiding and in a place like this I’m more at ease because wood has a nice scent [that counts] and with all the blushes of the speeches being made I’ll chip in by being a witness and bring a package from my side and then we carry the streamers to celebrate the openings and we’re there for successes and for making the pictures worth hanging on walls in auntie’s deserted frames on ambitious days of catching up.
“Sesenta y uno” and louder “seseNTA y UNO.”
“O, that’s us.”
My “horse” trigger is comprised of a few components: mom, the memory of the weekend of seeing the Science of Sleep, not much to do with westerns.
Back on Sunset, “What time is it?” --- “We should get back then.” --- “Ok, we’ll get back soon. Ok, so that angle.. I want to get the window in the shot.” -- “And maybe we should catch the eyes, too.”
The Waste I found in a cup is a place
Of Land where we can read intent
And consider the illusion
Of structure [is a thought had and then, in stacks of shelves in poor lighting in metal that smells like metal and wood that smells old and rows of books that, collectively, smell like contained ghosts, a tired one begins to compose a thesis].
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
More Dim (and not)
A piece of hope in my head from those weekends away, along with pieces of wine and a part of a piece of a passing day and a man in a Jaguar doesn’t look any happier than me and that’s not big or small. Another trip to the airport is a piece brought here and a piece to the past and a distortion of time and pieces of space and pieces of time overlapping a lean-to I helped build in my youth against writers that are against tattoos.
An inopportune moment, but I feel like writing and sometimes those moments are best.
Spent today eeking out an existence inside a small piece of me, stealing away a valuable day.
We communicate through our accomplishments. A subtle shift is a season. A long weekend splicing my desires splitting my excitement into what am I doing with myselves but hold strong hold steady hold on anyway. The weather is even fitting for that. Fresh ink on my skin it’s almost clicking. Almost familiar. Stop gazing off it won’t just happen it’s only almost familiar don’t push it a change in light and it’s all skimmed off the top. Don’t push it. Today’s a lingering day it’s a let things happen and when you breath smell just a little bit more through the nostrils and pretend to pick up hints of apple blossoms (even if you’ve never smelled them).
Where were you when
When the neighborhood opened up?
When the shingles spilled from the roofs?
When the real people all emerged from their routines and the hermits rushed from the hills to rejoice (wisdom passed down)?
Where were you for all this and more (still standing in line?) and where were you when I was reminiscing about days spent lingering and I was left to linger all alone?
An inopportune moment, but I feel like writing and sometimes those moments are best.
Spent today eeking out an existence inside a small piece of me, stealing away a valuable day.
We communicate through our accomplishments. A subtle shift is a season. A long weekend splicing my desires splitting my excitement into what am I doing with myselves but hold strong hold steady hold on anyway. The weather is even fitting for that. Fresh ink on my skin it’s almost clicking. Almost familiar. Stop gazing off it won’t just happen it’s only almost familiar don’t push it a change in light and it’s all skimmed off the top. Don’t push it. Today’s a lingering day it’s a let things happen and when you breath smell just a little bit more through the nostrils and pretend to pick up hints of apple blossoms (even if you’ve never smelled them).
Where were you when
When the neighborhood opened up?
When the shingles spilled from the roofs?
When the real people all emerged from their routines and the hermits rushed from the hills to rejoice (wisdom passed down)?
Where were you for all this and more (still standing in line?) and where were you when I was reminiscing about days spent lingering and I was left to linger all alone?
Friday, September 14, 2007
An Ambiguous Embrace
EDIT: TITLE... feeling pretty spacey today. someone tell me i'm not crazy.
An Ambiguous Embrace (a draft, as most others posted are... Phill- I wrote the first part awhile ago).
Spent today keeping in touch because,
like so many other things,
that’s an exercise in understanding difference
and self
and crucial just like “What does it mean to be fastinated with chandeliers?”
or “How do I travel?”
is “How do I treat the past?”
so it’s an exercise.
We spent the night throwing
peanut M&Ms and tearing apart our admirations.
Another night today
and it’s kind of nice (this sounds like something else
I wrote, but I guess I have to get more used to that)
to not be expected too much to just quietly ride and go
to a movie
and to imagine the stories
in the heads
of some of the Angelenos sitting
sipping coffee and their heads jittering around
They can’t sit still, these writers.
Let me tell you. Their eyes! They wander… Poor enterprisers.
This, and a few rushed days…
Where did I leave off? And how do we judge a bit of progress…
To do: write a list of things to do.
and then go to the bank and take a nap and then rid the world of awkwardness and stop looking for new music (constancy!) and be comfortable with what you have and think about walking on the beach
and think about the world of professional writers
and stop looking around and stop feeling disconnected and start writing about sex like everyone else to show you don’t shy and start packing a lunch and sew those jeans at the cuff and stop (?) asking what it means.
A day in shifts: morning and evening darknesses (I should only be awake for one of those).
And now it’s school-time again, think of:
fall/”how was your summer?”s/Labor Day county fairs/responses indicating character shifts/a matter of time and
an indication that it’s time for some things to end in order for others to begin.
An Ambiguous Embrace (a draft, as most others posted are... Phill- I wrote the first part awhile ago).
Spent today keeping in touch because,
like so many other things,
that’s an exercise in understanding difference
and self
and crucial just like “What does it mean to be fastinated with chandeliers?”
or “How do I travel?”
is “How do I treat the past?”
so it’s an exercise.
We spent the night throwing
peanut M&Ms and tearing apart our admirations.
Another night today
and it’s kind of nice (this sounds like something else
I wrote, but I guess I have to get more used to that)
to not be expected too much to just quietly ride and go
to a movie
and to imagine the stories
in the heads
of some of the Angelenos sitting
sipping coffee and their heads jittering around
They can’t sit still, these writers.
Let me tell you. Their eyes! They wander… Poor enterprisers.
This, and a few rushed days…
Where did I leave off? And how do we judge a bit of progress…
To do: write a list of things to do.
and then go to the bank and take a nap and then rid the world of awkwardness and stop looking for new music (constancy!) and be comfortable with what you have and think about walking on the beach
and think about the world of professional writers
and stop looking around and stop feeling disconnected and start writing about sex like everyone else to show you don’t shy and start packing a lunch and sew those jeans at the cuff and stop (?) asking what it means.
A day in shifts: morning and evening darknesses (I should only be awake for one of those).
And now it’s school-time again, think of:
fall/”how was your summer?”s/Labor Day county fairs/responses indicating character shifts/a matter of time and
an indication that it’s time for some things to end in order for others to begin.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
August
Faces and spaces
what does it mean to be settled
anyway?
and a buck’s exploding on my arm
in my head
anyway.
I still don’t believe in fate
(besides, ashtrays don’t do much good with this wind)
anyway.
Forty hours a week yeah sure why not
take that to go yeah sure why not
ride across L.A. yeah sure
meet up when you’re in town why not
keeping it concealed yeah
stay here for a bit sure
wishing things were different why
hold my hand yes please do
not.
Some people speak with their hands
and some sit and watch.
Where do we what do we get here how did
that happen?
And “so this is just something temporary?” (you have no idea)
so then where’s rent coming from (no idea) what
do you think when you hear _________
and what makes a day
a bad one?
(what day of the week is it?)
everything has to wait, right? (right)
All my things
are missing but three days ago
I was in a movie.
And then, the writer reading.
“Why don’t we each read a few pages and then
reconvene?”
“Sounds good.”
How are you really? You seem to repeat yourself more
now. Really I’m fine
really, thanks. Yeah, sorry though that was just a lull you caught me in last night.
I was about to write down that it’s funny how I don’t feel the need to have my phone near me when you are (then a slew across my face of days marked forever).
Why is it important that I spent Sunday near the ocean and how do I keep this going now that I’ve come clean?
Didn’t sleep much last night and I’m seeing spots
ocassionally my right
finger is numb (is that symbollic?)
I guess I’ll just keep picking
up because I’m forever
leaving off stepped
into the cheese store today (and later saw two old men playing chess)
and I wanted to taste everything.
Here everyone can pretend to be beautiful. Cue it up.
An evening can be telling
the truth
and that can bend the imagination
in ways it wasn’t ready or willing
and that can lead to wakeful nights
watching eclipses against yard lamps
through eyes looking for something bigger
to believe in—searching for relativity—and then
nextdays that are really full of shit
and Tuesdays that don’t deserve a name.
I put my book down because there’s too much to
say today to have time
or energy for that… An outdoor scene and a bus murmurs to downtown and Mexican horns light the heat another three degrees in the right direction. Look at the kids.
I like to be alone (always on my mind) but I’m tired now and too busy talking to myself to write poems
too busy asking rhetorical
questions
to write
poems
a harmonica unused at home bridled by
the real hours of the day and new! Coming soon! Future
attractions include:
“Jared goes home and rekindles a relationship with his family”
followed by
“A poet who drinks”
and
“A visit to the wilderness, a simple camping trip with a love” in which our hero comes to terms with his sentimental stacks and buys a new pair of sunglasses
and
“He finally gets settled, starts publishing consistently” and makes enough money to travel: a cool one that explores movements and also with hints about what it can mean to be
smoothing out, with hints of a child named August in the previews for upcoming features.
what does it mean to be settled
anyway?
and a buck’s exploding on my arm
in my head
anyway.
I still don’t believe in fate
(besides, ashtrays don’t do much good with this wind)
anyway.
Forty hours a week yeah sure why not
take that to go yeah sure why not
ride across L.A. yeah sure
meet up when you’re in town why not
keeping it concealed yeah
stay here for a bit sure
wishing things were different why
hold my hand yes please do
not.
Some people speak with their hands
and some sit and watch.
Where do we what do we get here how did
that happen?
And “so this is just something temporary?” (you have no idea)
so then where’s rent coming from (no idea) what
do you think when you hear _________
and what makes a day
a bad one?
(what day of the week is it?)
everything has to wait, right? (right)
All my things
are missing but three days ago
I was in a movie.
And then, the writer reading.
“Why don’t we each read a few pages and then
reconvene?”
“Sounds good.”
How are you really? You seem to repeat yourself more
now. Really I’m fine
really, thanks. Yeah, sorry though that was just a lull you caught me in last night.
I was about to write down that it’s funny how I don’t feel the need to have my phone near me when you are (then a slew across my face of days marked forever).
Why is it important that I spent Sunday near the ocean and how do I keep this going now that I’ve come clean?
Didn’t sleep much last night and I’m seeing spots
ocassionally my right
finger is numb (is that symbollic?)
I guess I’ll just keep picking
up because I’m forever
leaving off stepped
into the cheese store today (and later saw two old men playing chess)
and I wanted to taste everything.
Here everyone can pretend to be beautiful. Cue it up.
An evening can be telling
the truth
and that can bend the imagination
in ways it wasn’t ready or willing
and that can lead to wakeful nights
watching eclipses against yard lamps
through eyes looking for something bigger
to believe in—searching for relativity—and then
nextdays that are really full of shit
and Tuesdays that don’t deserve a name.
I put my book down because there’s too much to
say today to have time
or energy for that… An outdoor scene and a bus murmurs to downtown and Mexican horns light the heat another three degrees in the right direction. Look at the kids.
I like to be alone (always on my mind) but I’m tired now and too busy talking to myself to write poems
too busy asking rhetorical
questions
to write
poems
a harmonica unused at home bridled by
the real hours of the day and new! Coming soon! Future
attractions include:
“Jared goes home and rekindles a relationship with his family”
followed by
“A poet who drinks”
and
“A visit to the wilderness, a simple camping trip with a love” in which our hero comes to terms with his sentimental stacks and buys a new pair of sunglasses
and
“He finally gets settled, starts publishing consistently” and makes enough money to travel: a cool one that explores movements and also with hints about what it can mean to be
smoothing out, with hints of a child named August in the previews for upcoming features.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Shifting Decks
**line breaks are screwed up in this format... i just got to l.a. a few hours ago though and am extremely tired after two long days of 12+ hours of driving.**
Shifting Decks
Leaving is many parts
meeting new people and the feeling
of time lost and “Don’t hug me for more than ten seconds” because I’ll cry
(and in front of all these people at that)
and then also feeling “thanks for making me cry” thanks so
much for that for allowing me to spill myself onto your shoulder
food on the grill during the evening affair and then hummingbirds
at my Mom’s house
but wait, that’s skipping parts
steps, but that’s leaving
how places can be very similar and how one of my first poems was
“When the Hummingbird’s Hum Ceases to Hum” about death
in a sort of Keatsian manner, how funny that is
deck conversations, realizing what months
can be
and airing jeans on the line and snapping photos of them to get
a laugh
and cats that seem immortal
talking about new friends to old friends
and discovering role models
poems coming together on the road, one of them was
title “I Was Almost Crying Forty Miles Ago and Pulled Off the Road to Write This Especially for Earl and Phill”
body “I
love
you.”
but we all know that’s not a poem
and finding connections before departures realizing missed
opportunities
it’s casting lines out and breathing
camping overnight
feeling joy for buying baby food
for my little nephew
it’s “I’ll see you again”s that are both sincere and not
and a stick-shift in my hand
and great smells
seen but hidden by goodbye cigarettes
a walk in the woods I grew up in
showing my dad a poem
and it’s going to keep happening and it’s coming true and yes, it could be.
And if nothing else, it’s lots of hugs and taking chances,
and kissing vulnerability on the cheek,
backing away with a little wink.
Shifting Decks
Leaving is many parts
meeting new people and the feeling
of time lost and “Don’t hug me for more than ten seconds” because I’ll cry
(and in front of all these people at that)
and then also feeling “thanks for making me cry” thanks so
much for that for allowing me to spill myself onto your shoulder
food on the grill during the evening affair and then hummingbirds
at my Mom’s house
but wait, that’s skipping parts
steps, but that’s leaving
how places can be very similar and how one of my first poems was
“When the Hummingbird’s Hum Ceases to Hum” about death
in a sort of Keatsian manner, how funny that is
deck conversations, realizing what months
can be
and airing jeans on the line and snapping photos of them to get
a laugh
and cats that seem immortal
talking about new friends to old friends
and discovering role models
poems coming together on the road, one of them was
title “I Was Almost Crying Forty Miles Ago and Pulled Off the Road to Write This Especially for Earl and Phill”
body “I
love
you.”
but we all know that’s not a poem
and finding connections before departures realizing missed
opportunities
it’s casting lines out and breathing
camping overnight
feeling joy for buying baby food
for my little nephew
it’s “I’ll see you again”s that are both sincere and not
and a stick-shift in my hand
and great smells
seen but hidden by goodbye cigarettes
a walk in the woods I grew up in
showing my dad a poem
and it’s going to keep happening and it’s coming true and yes, it could be.
And if nothing else, it’s lots of hugs and taking chances,
and kissing vulnerability on the cheek,
backing away with a little wink.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Spoke Cards
I thought of this one today... wrote it a few months ago.
“Spoke Cards”
I can't remember the score,
but I was at a baseball game
in Milwaukee the day my grandpa died.
He was born and died, appropriately,
in August.
Two days after he’d passed,
I was walking amongst our horses
and heard the news. We lived in the country.
Now, I would say the landscape
was a scornful, imposing symbol
of happiness and thriving life
mocking my loss.
Then, I just knew that it felt too green
and too happy outside
and that I considered riding
one of our horses off, away.
Instead, dumbfounded, I walked to our garage, a hive of busied intentions and naïve confusion, and kicked some rusty bikes into the gravel floor.
If I were a cartoon, probably lots of dust and grainy pixels and a "poof" caption would complement my dirty fingernails.
“Spoke Cards”
I can't remember the score,
but I was at a baseball game
in Milwaukee the day my grandpa died.
He was born and died, appropriately,
in August.
Two days after he’d passed,
I was walking amongst our horses
and heard the news. We lived in the country.
Now, I would say the landscape
was a scornful, imposing symbol
of happiness and thriving life
mocking my loss.
Then, I just knew that it felt too green
and too happy outside
and that I considered riding
one of our horses off, away.
Instead, dumbfounded, I walked to our garage, a hive of busied intentions and naïve confusion, and kicked some rusty bikes into the gravel floor.
If I were a cartoon, probably lots of dust and grainy pixels and a "poof" caption would complement my dirty fingernails.
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