Poem of the Week

A Lemming, A Pool Slide
*this is from the new book, due soon, i promise*

A Lemming, A Pool Slide

Oh! Make it an easy death.
Let those rattles that chase me
direct me to an easy path-
Let me slip gently into your
skeletal arms,
your bone fingers.
Let them surround me quietly,
let there be no crunching.

We run in groups often-
Fast on a motorway with
the top down,
shooting through the sky
by giant vacuums,
lying in bed breathing cancers,
ignoring viruses,
studying the veins of our eyelids,
our little pulled-down blinds.

Let the flowers come first
like soft cots,
floating hammocks.

Let the procession be quiet and urgent!
Let it be a parade of lemmings,
A sightless festival,
an orgy to the sea.

- Tuesday, August 21, 2007

The Stone Eater

* meet matthew lamson. you guys know that every poem of the week (and usually poem of the month lol) has been one of mine. well, through the miracle of the internet i met a fantastic guy. i rarely boast about other authors and receive many, many poems from wonderful people, but this guy's poetry really moves me. i asked permission to share this one with you. (i took a small amount of artistic liberty, editing one line and some punctuation, but matt and i have discussed that.) thanks matt. you're amazing. *

The Stone Eater

I'm out in the driveway.
I'm down on all fours.
I'm taking handfuls of earth into my mouth,
lapping up pebbles with my scriptic tongue,
I want to be made of stone, just like you.

I chew them at first, the large ones.
Many slip right down my throat like pills.
The rocks, they crack and shatter my teeth-
Slivers of ivory that rip through my tarbox lungs.
Geodes filling the holes in my gums.
I've got a stone cold smile now, just like you.

The neighbors appear first,
abandoning their lit windows,
gathering in a circle to witness this feast.
They cry, "That madman, he thinks he's a worm!"
True, my insides have turned to soft puddles-
I'm a sleeve of flesh that the dirt merely passes through.

I'm bleeding now, from both ends
like the amethyst, the familiar thrust.
My knees have turned to grapefruit on the gravel.
Every time I writhe around a new wound appears.
The stones enter into my veins
beating through me.

The convent sisters arrive next,
out of habit, of course, claiming this to be their god's work.
Each flesh wound the claim, the stigmata-
I'm a martyr now, a miracle!
I'm a gift from god, just like you.

Finally the news crew arrives
carrying their cameras, they join the sidelines.
No one will come near, they just watch from safety.
I got the best ratings that night,
"The Stone Eater, Film at Eleven"

I'm getting full now,
Heavy like a stone, with my success, my joy.
But I will not reap the true rewards of my meal.
I'm now merely a mangled pulp of flesh
lying still in the driveway,
dead, on the inside and out,
cold as a stone, just like you.
- Friday, July 06, 2007

* i'm writing this now as i sit. no editing, no revisions. just how i feel at this moment. *

why have i taken this drink
when all i want is you?
i want to see you with clear eyes
and a steady hand to point with.

but what i see is a colorful bird
in blues and whites
lifeless in the mud.
its broken wings are wet
and mouth open in a silent call.

there's a comet overhead.
it's green and smeared across the darkening
sky like christmas frosting.
it mocks the bird with all of its grace.

i cut my arm with a sharp stone
and try to keep my head up to see
you smiling at me.
you're as blurry as a mummy in this bar.
i'm becoming toothless.

i see a lion with a curly mane
drinking from an ornate fountain.
his tongue looks rough
and his eyes are unblinking stars from cassiopeia
and his tail is tucked away.

behind the lion is a hungry dragon
with scales shimmering in the moonlight.
his tongue forks out as he creeps
up on this thirsty lion.
he is very silent.

i'm wishing you would ask me to come over.
i can't hear what you say
because i'm thinking of you shirtless.
a true lover, unabashed and beckoning me
to be a part of you,

an illuminating comet,
a refreshing fountain.

but i find that all pretty pictures
have a backing covered in tape,
staples, and cobweb against
a setion of wall that is never seen,
unless we remove the beauty.

i removed you today.
look at the dust lines and spiderwebs on the wall.

look at me. alone.
- Monday, February 05, 2007

* i'm in the middle of buying a new house right now and am cleaning and digging through all of my old things. i found this poem folded up in a box... i have an idea what it might be about, although who knows what i was thinking then! by my handwriting i'm certain i wrote it sometime in the late 1990's. i love it. i hope you do too. *

Years ago
I saw three purple ladies
laughing in a cloud-
their white carriage
moving like jets or frisbees.

I was overcome
with madness at nineteen.
I didn't have
cellophane voices in my head
or plaid visions overlapping-
just madness for the
lack of warmth I needed.
I saw jack-o-lanterns
with my face-
a triangle nose
and ultraviolet eyebrows
and teeth in all the right places.
I saw bloodstains
on headboards
and wheelbarrows overturned
in bedrooms
and my mother on tv.
She moved her mouth
at the same speed the cirrus
clouds moved over her head.

And there
the three purple ladies
peered over the edge and
smiled from far above-
Cheshire and dressed in riches.
- Sunday, January 28, 2007

* 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

Wandering Around To Find A Place To Sit
* i wrote the most ridiculous poem back in september (sept 31st actually) and reread it today and had a real laugh. i thought i'd share it with you here, unrevised, just written as it was the drunken day i jotted it down. enjoy xoxo *

Wandering Around To Find A Place To Sit

It's not a big deal really.
Marco Polo did it.
But that's just it!
I'm sitting now.
My head is wandering
to find a place to sit.
My legs mean nothing to me
at this moment.
in fact, they're sort of in my
way at this picnic table.

The sun is on my back.
It's the afternoon in September.
I wandered to the south years ago
so it feels like midsummer.

I stayed here.
I'm still wandering though,
Even in my sleep.
My legs twitch,
my brain lights up like neon.

There's a map with no end.
It's in my lap now.
It's not a big deal really.
Ernest Hemmingway did it.
- Sunday, November 19, 2006

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