|
|
- <[[Brennen]]> I sort of fixed these so they are readable again. A downside would be that they are in fixed-width text. I should figure out some kind of poetry notation so that it's easier to write with the line breaks.
-
- = the dude on a moped poem =
-
- Dude on a moped.
- Yellow moped.
- White dude.
- Driving down Interstate
- in boring Ohio.
- A blip in my vision and then
- gone forever like a
- bug flying past the car that
- actually doesn't hit the windshield.
- (It doesn't seem there are many
- of those, but really
- how would you know?)
-
- Drive, dude.
- Drive.
-
- = the small wakefulnesses poem =
-
- half past one
- a.m., house creaks with
- small wakefulnesses--
- cellar spiders navigating
- stolen webs
- in concrete corners, always dark;
- drunken moths
- dash themselves against the lights and
- drape their folded wings on walls.
- all move under silences
- flung heavily into the air,
- heedless of the disembodied
- whispers in the hall.
-
- (in their lives)
- sleep and wake are just the same.
-
- somewhere within an arm's reach
- i can feel ghosts in motion,
- glinting shadows reaching forward
- toward memories i cannot see.
- windows trick reflections, wonder
- why i am afraid,
- and wait quietly as yesterday
- walks resolutely by.
-
- :You know you're better at this game than I am.
-
- Bah. Maybe one time in fifty. Have you any idea how much complete shit I've had the sheer audacity to commit to the page?\\
- But, thanks. That's a higher compliment than you think.
-
- = the poem we mostly know too well =
-
- icy dew at two a.m.--
- you are on your knees,
- convulsions hidden by draped shadow
- and my jacket on your back.
-
- (those last two beers were a mistake.)
-
- flowing from this near-darkness
- breezes wake my tired mind;
- I think of the last
- two hours-- you
- crumpled on the bathroom floor
- a red streak in that pale room
- murmuring "I hate myself".
-
- I sat on my knees and looked
- up to sky-blue hand towels
- embroidered with
- (what I think are)
- irises,
- as though praying at an
- altar.
-
- = the sunrise 7:48 poem =
-
- Tweak, nudge, shift, delete, beige keyboard keys clatter.
-
- Maybe, just maybe, she thinks, I can finally sit back and say, "There."
-
- :I added a newline after "mirrors.". Does that work? Because if it does, I think it's finished.
-
- It does.
-
- sunrise 7:48 a.m.
- belly-lit clouds
- rolling over-and-back, they are
- oceans, escaping
- swept out over Nebraska
- (no doubt regretting it,
- now)
- turn my car down the highway
- past bare frozen fields,
- sky's tide rising in the rear
- -view mirrors.
-
- this one goes out to
- tomorrow.
-
- = the inevitable poem =
-
- Our family, gathered around the dining room table, is shrinking again--in numbers, and away from one another. Is this the irreversible trend, or just the day?
-
- The world outside is bright blue, alert and despairing against glaring kitchen lights. Close the curtains, because every nightmare is approaching from across bare fields...
-
- = ( =
- our family
- gathered around the dining room table
- is shrinking again
- -- in numbers
- and away from one another
- is this the irreversible trend
- or just the day?
-
- the world outside is bright blue
- alert and despairing against
- glaring kitchen lights
-
- close the curtains
- because every nightmare
- is approaching from across bare fields
-
- = ) =
-
- <[caeb]> holy buckets, this is still here.
-
-
- <[caeb]> *cough* and i note there's a space in my name.
-
-
- <[Brennen]> It's a software problem.
|
