Poem of the Week

Alone, Calling Across The Water
* this is new. enjoy. it was published in the beat uk. *

From the moment you expect love,
you realize it is not happening.

When the lake is finally still
with all of its breathing and
nestled fishes
and the sun has
buried itself in the soil,
you can call out across
the black water and
all of the bedtime trees will
lend a hardened ear,
the owls will open their eyes
in yellow wonder,
the nests will unweave themselves
with new flight,
the boll weevils will
stick their noses out,
they will listen to your
heart that is sour,
they will smell your landlocked tears,
they will rise up
to catch your calling
from across the water
as gentle twilight
disappears and
you learn to stand alone...

the eager honeybee you've become,
the patient acorn you will be.

- Sunday, December 26, 2004

This Year's Christmas Pattern
* i wrote this poem about three years ago when i was finally getting adjusted to life in texas- it's the only christmas poem i think i've ever written. *

There is a Christmas pattern that weaves
through trees blinking on and off
deep within spray-on snow
to the four wheel madness of lights on cars
locked on the feeder roads like sheep in the slaughter fence.
The chiming of bells at groceries
like angry fairies
and the eyes that gaze
when the change stays in your pocket.
This Christmas pattern wraps around suburbia
in stuffed mini-vans at 15 miles per hours
gaping and pointing at the fire hazard to the right,
the fire hazard to the left,
the bobbing, electric light reindeer,
the jolly, waving Santa under a palm tree.
This pattern grows in store windows with
gaily painted holly leaves
with the words "EAT ME" scratched into the red berries.
It continues to the "fuck you lady" at the intersection
when a white SUV with a wreath on the grill
tries a turn too slowly to
the lines at the post office that turn into
big bad wolves with huffs and puffs,
wanting to blow down the holiday customer
in front of them.
All of this rush and madness,
pushing and whining,
yelling and showing middle fingers
just to keep the Christmas pattern alive...
The true happiness of Christmas comes from the giving,
not the receiving.
I watch the string lights chase each other
through a tree at the bank,
dashing and dancing through the spray-on snow-
I see these lights turn to highways and store aisles,
different colours of people rushing around,
each bulb a destination, each branch a family,
each needle a person.
There is a Christmas pattern I follow.
I stay mostly drunk on the holidays.

- Tuesday, December 14, 2004

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