Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Poem for Wednesday, February 24, 2010


Things We Take for Granted

full stomachs, or even half-full, to begin with. They
keep your vessel warm, give you
bowel movements (without bowel movements
you'll die).

the lining inside your Levi's jeans. Grayscale
designs with stars and automobiles etched
from a rugged western antiquity.
Have you ever noticed it?

students who used your textbook before you did.
Knowing that someone suffered through
your mind-numbing physics class, too (the
phallus on pg. 87 is a surprise worth a chuckle).

obscure colors, like chartreuse.

the remnants of the last snow of the year. Stacked
and tarnished on jet black asphalt, grossly
out of place, but it can cool your summer
heart before you combust.

a vast karaoke repertoire in redneck taverns. Just when
you start resting your lungs for a Charlie
Daniels' song, you come across Radiohead,
thank god, and command the stage.
the breaths you take in between kisses. Like when
we brushed lips beneath a naked maple
in January (you uttered the "L" word to me
without thinking, then kissed me again).

Indo-European languages.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Poem for Sunday, February 21, 2010


My First Heartbreak: A Rhetorical Analysis

okay, so I was born

how did my parents choose my name?
when the Chinese doctor won the tug-of-
war with my mother's womb
they saw me for the first time

a crying ball of flesh and natal juices
glowing orb-like under fluorescent lights

did my father proclaim, "Yep, he's an Andrew, alright"?

not long after, I was thirteen

a couth brunette with a Yankee accent
broke my heart and didn't even know it
when she got with this spiky-haired
kid who took ritalin

I sat in a lawn chair beneath the pines
for forty-five minutes in disbelief

do all Andrews cope this way?
would an oak have provided greater fortitude?

and here I am now

Andrew (who?)
heart-mended (huh?)
no trees (if a tree fell in a forest and no one was around...)

strides past thirteen
still in disbelief (how could she?)

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Poem for Thursday, February 18, 2010


My Gunilla


I.

She sat alone upon her icy throne in her
Swedish castle, reading his letters from
fifty years ago.
He wrote to her
with a strong tan New England hand
(the same hand that commanded
a nation), he wrote to her,

I've been thinking of sailing the Mediterranean
with you, my Gunilla, as the crew...

She was blue-blooded and passion-struck
when she met him on the
French Riviera
just as any young woman would be.

He was a scholar, a politican with that
fiery charm that could make
her country burn like the tropics
(turning snowballs into coconuts).

II.

The sun set over their tryst and
one more time, he wrote to her,

Things have become so complicated...
this will be my last letter, but I will
look over and think of you, my Gunilla.

The sun set over his marriage, over
his children, over the speeding silver
ripping through his
all-American face.

She sat alone upon her icy throne in her
Swedish castle, thinking of the sand
that June, her chin resting on his arm.

She thought of him,

He was romantic and strong, but
he was not forever.

Her sobs shook the mountains, and
the sun set over them, too.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Poem for February 14, 2010

Happy fucking Valentine's Day!


Blue Eyes & Tofu: A Narcissist Moment

Water came out of the faucet
somewhere between
a drool and a torrential downpour
I flipped the garbage disposal
switch and shit went down

Tofu went down
like a stuffed toy cow sliced
by Kenmore blades
in steak-size chunks
mmmmm

A demon possessed the disposal
it bellowed something ancient
something tribal with its metal
lungs deep from hell
bwgrrrrrr

Day-old tofu stench
usurped the clean air
smelled like rotten veggies
post-sex pheromones

the whole time I watched it drown
I found a face so renown
in the ornate Spanish mirror
directly before me

blue eyes so large and round
a hue nothing near could match

even during the dirtiest tasks
I am...

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Poem for Thursday, February 11, 2010


Haiku-Poem Chain

It was two a.m.
when he smoked that cigarette
by a pond of slush. . .

. . .Black slush, dark water
the density of snowballs
prevailed with ripples. . .

. . .He went on about
traveling, helping children
(the gin's what did it). . .

. . .No parameters
just elliptical patterns
and the goddamn fog. . .

. . .Wasn't there a girl
with a navy SUV?
Blues Traveler jams?. . .

. . .Who saunters along
wearing house-shoes in month two?
(The son of Jack Frost). . .

. . .Jack Frost and Black Frost
wagered with old Apollo
and clearly, they won. . .

. . .Because there's no sun
only ice and warm stomachs
(the gin's what did it). . .

. . .They say Mexico
is nice this time of the year
you Blues Traveler

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Poem for Wednesday, February 10, 2010


The Perfect Time for Fucking

is when

it's snowing, of course
there's an army of snowmen posted up in yard after
yard
carrot noses and mischief embedded
in 20-degree precipitation

(this is when I love you the most)

candles, candles you suggest

I say

fuck your idyllic warmth; let's be hot-natured beneath
an overworked ceiling fan, let's just
do that.




Friday, February 5, 2010

Poem for Friday, February 5, 2010


3 Insignificants of Yesterday

I. Trip to Wal-Mart

Grocery carts &
fruit baskets
chock-full of
junk food, iPods
fried chicken &
despair;
I need a
trash can, some
dishwashing
detergent, a
lobotomy.

II. Trip to Extreme Fitness

After 10 minutes on the treadmill, I turn around and look for guys
around my size: none. I don't think they take steroids, but I think
they pull buses w/ protein-stained teeth. Time to define my chest:
set the machine to 100 lbs., contract like a motherfucker, keep up w/
hip-hop music. The smell of metal & sweat along w/ my grunting
ignites the apocalypse.

III. Trip to Arvest Bank

My brother drove me &
he parked close, but
it's still cold & wet (pneumonia
falling from gray skies). The teller's a nice
lady because she has to be.
Most people would get sick if the air
was thick
w/ over-buttered popcorn and dingy dollar bills.
Personally, I can't breathe in anything else.
Successful deposit!

Monday, February 1, 2010

Poem for Monday, February 1, 2010


The Rice Silos

Once a month or so, I drive past some
rice silos in the distant tawny fields
of a speed-trap town.

In those fleeting seconds, 58 mph to
be exact, I examine those silos
like the scientist I am not.

Some things I pinpoint:

the grooves in the giant tin cylinder tops
tetanal rust forming at said grooves' edges
bird-shit stains that remain until it rains
the vast shadows darkening the backs of cows

Some things I wonder:

how tall and how stable are those silos
what is the volume of the giant tin cylinders
how many pounds of Arkansan rice can they hold
should I become a humble, tan-lined farmer

Sometimes, I see a farmer bent down
working while the torrid sun scorches
his calloused back.

I want to ask him how it feels to have
his four children's futures depend
on plentiful rainfall.

I want to ask him how it feels to curse
and slay the same animals he loves
to feed the world;

and before I know it, my seconds are up

I speed away, sifting through the radio
stations as I approach a long stretch
of Baptist churches.