Poem of the Week

* i'm in a horrid mood. i'm writing this now. *

it's a crime.
my backwall of fury confronts your countenance.
you don't notice
from across the floor.

you don't notice anything,
spinning the way you do
with your arms above your head
like antennae,
the insect that you are.

my hands are cold.
they are begging for little fires,
lightning bugs,
and sparklers.

there are no icicles here.
it's not fair for you to glance at me like that.
there's no winter in texas.

what i have now
is a dead opossum in my street
and a yard of brown sycamore leaves
that whisper to me when i walk
to my car,
"look at you all alone!
will you sleep in your car again tonight?"

my radio,
my friend,
i'm hearing voices from the great beyond.

i'm hearing everything around me:
the traffic,
the helicopters,
the plastic bags on the wind.

i'm not hearing you.
i'm only seeing you from across the room.
- Sunday, December 17, 2006

For Angel, The Brilliant Poet
* i wrote this tonight at 11:45pm *

When i stepped into your home
you embraced me
and dipped me in a silenced dance.
I grinned like a crescent moon,
stars in my hair.

Was it that dark, curly mess
on your head or was it the way
you held your poetry like a flower
when you read?

My smokestack life wrinkled your nose.
My drink-in-hand slapped your brain.
My poetry suprised you.
Our sameness compromised.

I left your home drunk on vodka
with clementines in my belly
and an armload of poetry
screaming at me,
begging to be placed on a shelf
to gather dust.
- Wednesday, December 06, 2006

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