Poem for Sunday, August 2nd, 2009

Here's What I'm Feeling

I heard a rumor

that you

have a tumor

                      but

it's only benign

it'll be just fine

(and I could keep

 on rhymin' here, but)

I feel like writing in

free verse and

using big ole words like

"didactical"

(I hate that word)

but

anyway

a friend told me

of this guy

who thought he was

Jack Kerouac

                       he

traveled across

the continental U.S. of

A

(he wasn't oppressed

 enough to be Kerouac)

so my friend and I

laughed at him

over a

         beer

Poem for Thursday, July 30, 2009

As for the subtitles, my German is a bit rusty, so please forgive me.

Invisible Hands

I. Letzter Nacht hat es geregnet.

The rain dots the

concrete, drop

by drop, forming

shapes and continents,

scattering the sediment.

Some invisible hands

are squeezing the clouds

like heavy sponges,

draining life down the

sink onto our earth,

our homes, into our

eager mouths, agape.

This happens through

the muggy dusk and

into the night (those

same invisible hands

have covered our

box with a magician's

black cloak). Look

outside and see the

moon from any direction;

for once, we are

the orbitees.

II. Ich will nicht meinen Traum vergessen.

My final thought

before I awoke this

morning (still streaked

with rain/life from

last night) was the

conclusion to my

peculiar dream;

let me tell you what

happened:

I was circularly pacing

in a small room somewhere

in Munich, Germany.

There was a single

window, and I would

rest my elbows on the

weathered pane and

marvel at the Alps

far, far away. The old

Bavarians would smile

with aplomb and wave

at me as they passed

by in their Lederhosen.

This is all I would do;

I felt neither hunger

nor apathy, but I

could not leave my

small room.

III. Es deckt nicht und alles auf.

The rain evaporates

with the heat,

seeping beneath the

concrete's surface,

skimming past each

shiny granule. How

the sun orchestrates

this is amazing.

I am now

conscious; most

of my dream is

forgotten, fallen

between my synapses

and electrical impulses.

How the brain

orchestrates this is

amazing. What are these

rainy dreams?

Where are these places

we transcend, where

those invisible hands

decide we must traverse

to be praised

or punished?

Poem for Monday, July 27, 2009

Ali's Teapots

number at

4,000

and are made of the

absolutefinestsilver

in the eastern (& perhaps

           western) world

his own son told me

so I know it's so

the glimmering tea-

pots are worth

100,000 riyals (or

60,000 dollars) and

some are over

           a hundred years old

his own son told me

incredible, I know

                            but

what makes them

immaculate is

what's in their

            reflection:

the American

the Arabian

sitting on a couch

laughing as they mis-

pronounce words in each 

others' languages

               and

above that, a

ubiquitous light caught

in a glare      (from the

                       heaven

                       they both

believe in)

Poem for Sunday, July 26, 2009

Poem About a Kite

Well, they shot

           your kite right

out of the sky

           everything they

teach you about

           physics is true

force, acceleration

           gravity & love

           there was a

formation of geese

           early signs of

a mischievous storm

           no trees, though

you were confident

           string in hand

ready to fly, fly

not to

           fall, fall

Poem for Saturday, July 25, 2009

It has been awhile; I'm sorry.

Our Hidden Island

In my head, I have

created something

beautiful

you, God, and I

are waiting

there

somewhere

exotic, my subconscious

takes me to

our hidden island

in the

Caribbean

refracted from

man's vision as he

sails by

God

just wants to

protect us

you, creeping

behind the palms

unnoticed

stealthy, like

acquiring

language

I am sea-

frolicking, algae

tangling my feet

wondering

about the spice-

trading business

God is

fixing up an old

wooden vessel

that will never

touch the

glimmering brine

God is

watching us like

he did the first two

I am Adam,

you are Eve,

born from my

imagination

Poem for Monday, July 20, 2009

*Note to T.S. in regard to imitating writing styles: we can go tit for tat.

Untitled

Oh, how the fan blades

swing          elliptically

kissing the sweat that

evaporates from our

foolish bodies

I turn to you in the dark

under the covers, I ask

if the ceiling caved in

like the       catacombs

would it be so bad?

would it be so bad if

the moon melted

astrological butter

enraging the tides

enraging the sirens

something to think about

and we sweat again

the fan blades lethally

cutting       tensionknives

I am grabbing your hand

I don't know what to say next

will you be here

five minutes from    ?

Poem for Friday, July 17, 2009

Love and Character Flaws

I kissed you because I can

I thought

peering out the window (midday sun

                                     frying my brain)

the sheets still smelled of

your Turkish Royal cigarettes

you left me because you had to

I remembered

as I got in the shower crushing

the soap (Irish Spring)

between my fingers

apparently, I am intolerable

but I left you first

after I bought you flowers

tulips, to be exact and

you just

             let

                 them

                        wilt