I spend my days groping for the latch of a closed door – Henry James
this country is a glamour
imposed upon the forest
I like the idea of limiting the number of words in a poetry collection in the way a painter limits a palette. A vocabulary made of basic words. Words repeating, showing up in multiple poems, shifting in meaning, standing in for complex thoughts, experiences, memories. Private metaphor. Memoir in code.
A spoon, a bird, a pie, a chesterfield.
peered into the meringue
stiff peaks sticky
on my tongue
*experiment with mixing text at Language is a Virus*
you are lollipop
you are sugar
kiss you are
moss you are
the rain has my heaven,
and all this is picture to the rainbow
*using a variety of tools at Language is a Virus*
A restaurant in an airport parking garage, ornate as a gilded jewelry box. Seats one. There is no need for a maître d’. The cook stands before a single flame, hands you a dish. It’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted and you have no one to describe it to.
I don’t remember how
I got the scar on my
right thigh shaped like
the forced smile I give
distant relatives who
motion me in for a hug.
like magician’s coins
I once attended a reading that was novel/engaging. The poet read rapid-fire. All of the images were startling and my synapses fired nonstop. Later, trying to recall the poems, I felt like this raccoon trying to wash cotton candy.
I dreamt that bees surrounded me and no one would come near. I was convinced I had become their queen. I felt powerful and lonely.
It turned out, their real queen had landed on my back and they were, in fact, surrounding her.
I was merely lonely.
I make promises I know that I can’t keep, but I make them anyway, believing in a future where they come true and I am vindicated by their happening
We used to write obituaries and submit them to the local paper. Now we post a tweet, upload a Facebook video, sepia filtered, text overlayed, guitar strumming softly in the background.
This is still love.