Sunday, September 30, 2007

out the window

Out there, through dark cedar panes:
A tree with a twig and a soft
everpresent wind. Maybe there
is a bee or squirrel at a flower,
but everything else is the same.

Through a broken hole in the broken blind:
A man runs with his head as a gazelle might.
I never see the lion,
but if there is one, I doubt it will catch up at this point.

Friday, September 28, 2007

working hard

I've been working on one poem for a few hours.
I am no longer able to tell when something I write is good or not.
I've had a very strong urge to be famous latley.
I would rather not gather in a big group talking to people I don't know and telling them my first and last name and them telling me their first and last name.
I feel lumpy and full and lonley.
I would write home, but I can't find the time.
I would continue to eat, as it is the only thing that really makes sense anymore.

Comma Splice.

Monday, September 24, 2007


I remember feeling at ease earlier today. Maybe it was because I started grading papers or drank a beer or sat on the internet too long, but now it all seems gone. The ideas I had about my life, emotions, emotions and faces of those around me, anxiety, sleep, poetry, all somewhere else maybe stretching into someone else's mind. The collective experience. I do like to think about that one. I remember feeling overwhelmed by all the books at the Strand bookstore. What did it mean for me? I saw a book by Carolyn Forche I would have liked to own, a book about the history of marajuana, a book with electrical impersinations of birds, a book by Charles Darwin about how human and animal facial expressions relate to one another. And I will die without reading 1/10th of the books in that one store. A lot of people think about that. Maybe even a lot of people feel overwhelmed by that. I finally made sense of some poems I have to talk about and bought a nice knife that was on sale and a garlic press that was not. i thought about space, not the big dark kind, but the kind we make in our room and how we need familiar things in order to feel familiar to ourselves. I had a chair that every cat I ever knew loved to sit in. I sold that chair to someone at a garage sale and I wonder if they have a cat that loves to sit in the chair too.

Today I felt less anxious and more okay of where I am. I ended up drinking coffee, and felt a little anxious, but then back to observant and local to myself. I watched the light open and close on a woman's white shoes on the subway. Like how lightening can change a room. I read a poem about that, too.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

doing what I feel

(id like to continue, but fear ill get stuck)

dear mom,
i saw a dead rat a few weeks ago.
it had a lot of puke coming from its mouth.
i thought about my pet rats and almost puked.
i see a lot of puke when i walk down 3rd or 4th ave.
sometimes i get so sick i scream a little into my own ears.



i would like to collaberate on a fine zine of writing and pictures.
i need to make something im not told to make.
how do i feel?

i also want pet rats and to live by myself.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007


crept around
the furrowed brow

crept around
the space in between

to caress the scalp,
the motion of something
comfortable. to lose

the shaking maple leaves
of the body

on the sidewalks.

the fall of the body,
shed everything
and you'll be renewed and ready
to hibernate nude in the cave
of your bedroom.

ripe plum sheets
with blankets grey
as snow
and thick
as rabbits.

soon you will come
baby faced
into the spring.

Thursday, September 6, 2007


Why is it
that green is the color of jealousy?

Tonight winds started to stir into fall.
I saw a man come out a building filled with a silent
sadness that hovered around rage,
it was the off track betting building.

I wondered what sort of savings he had lost.
What he perhaps earned earlier in the night,

another man grabbed my eyes with his,
and shook his head. A prayer for the man
or for me

unable not to watch.

I sometimes feel that inside
I am nothing but black melting tar
and things are dying to get stuck inside.

negative. positive. negative. negative. negative.

Saturday, September 1, 2007


fact: it is 3:16am

fact: i wish i was in the midwest.

fact: i have a hard time admitting that to anyone.

fact: i feel lonley and sometimes afraid and mostly tired and scared and yearning for the whistle of wind through a tree or just an afternoon spent in bed listening to records, because you have the time for that sort of thing, or the someone to do it with, and i want air that doesn't smell funny, and maybe a garden. i have plenty of personal space in my room, but really nothing but a few books that i can remember a history through.

i love my new brown faded desk. i love the two friends that helped me bring it into my room. i wish i could relax, now that i realize this isnt vacation anymore.