Friday, May 29, 2015

Asleep, silent and small

I feel like it's not ok to write a poem about texting like when poets first dared to write of the telephone it must have seemed so modern so shallow so empty.
And then I think
it must be communication 
itself a step removed from the source
the act of conveying a message
about the mechanism of conveying messages
it's all so meta I want to sleep forever
but you know, in a good way
sometimes I think I'll lose my mind
if I have to reply to a text
please for the love of god
call me
call me
let me hear your voice
so I can be silent
and let my lips touch and eyes close
halfway sink into myself
the way I do when I think 
how beautiful this existence
where nothing lasts
and even identical things are not identical
I want to cry how perfect
to feel so small
please for the love of god
let me be small

Thursday, May 21, 2015

When I cry

When I cry
I cry from the beautiful
destruction of my life
the tearing down
and tearing down
and disintegration
of what I was
and what I've known.
I cry of what is unique
in this world, of sameness
of ideas gone wild until
there is no sense
in maniacal laughter
in having no breath
the morning after
the scent of death
and ash and river
and pyre
of course the fire
and monkeys.
I lost the back of my earring
three years ago 
in Kathmandu the power outage
blinded me
and I banged the side of my head
on the doorway and I heard it, 
the ping ping ping
of my earring
bouncing across the tile until
it disappeared into the drain
and I smiled, knowing
I'd touch the place
where it should be
the beautiful destruction
here with me

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Time Out

Sometimes my love for you 
wants nothing to do with you
I'd rather sit here with it
and have a love affair with my love

Waves of 5/4 time spill over
crowded voices, distilled
a dry martini, chill
it's 1959

And people are trying to sleep across the street
while images of earth are transmitted from space

It gets really confusing, looking out, looking in
between hands pressed together, Take Five

Thursday, May 7, 2015

Things aren't what they were and that's how it should be

Today I heard someone say
Oh, fiddle
And I fell in love
with everything that is wrong
about being on the verge of losing
a generation

Friday, January 10, 2014

Paper Swallow by Stanley Moss

This poem appeared in my inbox the other day from the Poem-A-Day subscription by Academy of American Poets.

Paper Swallow, by Stanley Moss

Sunday, November 3, 2013

I visited a Native American burial site in Autumn

Autumn is the sublimation of the seasons.
I stood atop the remains of the centuries
when winds were high and colors flew
and their world changed slowly, as I looked through
bare branches exposing a swift harvest and endless summer
but it wasn't endless anymore, the way generations are...
My hand in my jacket pocket traced the plastic case of my cell phone
and I was a stranger.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

I like the way you call me

I like the way you call me
from the road, I miss you
like I miss far off places
when I play a slideshow
reminiscing in three-second intervals
I get there quickly, to whatever
What I'm saying is
I like the way you call me.