The Descent

This is the part that I should love the most
This is where all my reclusive thoughts should appear.
This is when I stop at the boiling point.
212 degrees drawing near.

This is my selfishness ready to seep
out into and over the pot of despair.
This is my heart saying no to the fall,
and my mind not ready to reason with fair.

I want to change into a tempting release
before Sylvia takes over and clutches my soul.
To grab a hold of that which sums, before sinking
into the bottomless Plutonian hole.

Time

Time is not on my side. Isn't that the opposite of what the Stones put forward that embraced
that awful truth.
To realize that one day there will be nothing left of time but our tired and worn out bodies.
A butterfly...in it's finite being only has so much of this limited allotment.
She flies around the yard creating beauty just by being. It doesn't wait for the opportune moment to parade it's wings around the courtyard. It doesn't wait for silence to say "This...this is my time to come out of the bush." She just flutters freely. The same goes for my words.It is when time is limited that words come to me. When I have no pen or paper to capture them. I need a mental net to trap them in one place until I can scribble my ideas and conceal them in one beautiful glass jar.

Craving, Asking, Partaking

I want to see paradise, but I want a red delicious apple too.
I want to live by the beach, but I crave rhubarb cobbler too much.
I want to be in love, but I covet creme brulee.

Is it the tastes that I long for, or the satisfaction I get from this nourishment?
They go through my digestive system double-time. Before I even get to enjoy them,
they are gone.

My eyes are too big for my stomach, so I eat of the crimson ball.
My body is tired and worn, so I take out my serving knife.
My heart is untouched therefore, I indulge and the flavors that melt on my tongue.

There is nothing like loving this one.

Please remember me...the words i muddle,
the artists i admire, the places I traveled, and the pictures you inspire.

I've come to learn that if you have a round face you're "cute."
If you add a little chunk to that you're "sweet."
People use words like "hun," "sweetie," and "darlin."
I've become the nice girl that's afraid of my own shadow.
I want to be seen as something other than cute. And I sure as hell don't wanna be "sweet."
Not that there's anything wrong with this, but it's not me. It's just my unchangeable exterior that haunts me.

Letter to a Legend

Dear Sylvia,

This world has changed since you've existed in it. Women are well educated now and may become whatever they please. They only admit persons into an asylum if they are truly insane. Courting is for the religiously devout. People don't care about writing or poetry like you did. Anyone can be a poet. I know you would disagree. Relationships are kept alive from afar with as little human contact as possible. Children learn to grow up the minute their father walks out the door. But, as much as I hate to say things have changed, much has stayed the same. There is still war going on; men bleeding for a hope that we will someday be invulnerable. Money is still the root of all evil, there's just less of it. People still lie, cheat, and steal when they think no one is looking. Iniquities still haunt the human soul like it was the first day and the apple was that red. Would you have made the same decision if you knew the future? I believe you would. It just would have been sooner...

The Fall of Icarus

Icarus
The man passes slowly as the creature ascends
into the air within stones throw
the sweltering planet he sweats and
drips into wax
drops into wash
drinks in the splash
of the water. His legs
lifted for aide
muddled in vain
flailing to save
himself in the midst. Here he's forgot
in the water
alone.

The Bathroom Scene

I remember the porcelain chair... my legs pulled up beneath me, my eyes towards the mirror... I was never so fascinated, wondering when it would be my turn. To choose any color I wanted from the palate, and smear it on my face until my eyes opened up surrounded in black and my cheeks flushed in pink. I watched my mother carefully. Where was she going? Her eyelashes curled, her legs pulled in, nestled in the oval shaped ceramic bowl. Accompanied by her bag of tricks and lighter fluid. Who did she think she would impress? I don't think it was me.

If I could keep one poem in my pocket for the rest of my life, it would be this one:
This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
--William Carlos Williams

Today is poem in your pocket day so here it goes:

why is why is why is...
weighted questions of sovereignty
inquest of life, draped over eyes
related to the immoral severity
lines to cross, and paychecks to rise

Statement of poetics

I actually did it. I wrote my own statement of poetics. Can it measure up to Samuel Coleridge's ingenious "best words" or Frank O'Hara's profound discovery of Personism? Probably not. Can it embody the cleverness of my head being ripped off Dickinson. Not a chance. Will it ever match up to William Carlos Williams "no ideas but in things?" Never. but it's mine. all mine. and no one can take that away from me.

I feel as if I have abandoned my blog for way too long. I won't be gone for too long.

An Ode to Sylvia

My not so New Year's Resolutions

What I need to change for New Years ( these are NOT resolutions because I can't commit myself fully to them, but I would like to)

1. I never take anything seriously. If I did my mind would explode. So i guess I could try and change that.

2. My secret life that is kept alive by all that is unpopular within me.(Dunn) Which means maybe I can try and be more open with others if they are willing to listen.

3. Stop getting angry at stupid things like when chocolate ice cream is spilled all over my favorite blanket (not by me I might add). I guess that's why God invented a man that invented washers.

Angry

You know the feeling when you are so angry at someone that you only focus on that one thing? Everything else seems trivial because you wish you had said something different, to let them know how you really felt. It makes you so mad you wish you could re-live the conversation so you could say what you really wanted to say. You know...the conversation you play over and over in your head where every put-down is a burn so bad that they won't know what to say back. That you talk so fast, blow after blow, that they have no time left to get a word in to defend themselves...better yet, they won't be able to defend themselves because they will be so blown away by what you just said, that they instantaneously realize they were in the wrong and beg for forgiveness. That's how I feel right now.