Archive for the ‘Prosetry’ Category

White Pow(d)er

Tuesday, December 21st, 2010

Tonight is the lunar eclipse, but it is too cloudy to see.
However, this solstice eve is absolutely beautiful.

The air is still and tolerably crisp.
Snow falls silently, and I want to lie down on it,
looking up at the sky, snow settling on my lashes.
I blink them away.

And I want you, whoever you may be,
to stretch out next to me.
In cozy coats and padded gloves
we hold hands under the glowing sky.

My boot may touch yours,
like paper dolls dusted
with unpaper snowflakes.

Like so many other night skies,
so many other exhibits of loveliness,
I want to share them with someone.

Reality blends with longing
into imaginative scenes
of snowy gloves, chilled lips,
and ardent eyes blinking back the frost.

Damn this barstool

Sunday, December 5th, 2010

Simple objective
Leave the house
Hampered by an afternoon nap
Lasting five hours

Going alone
Yet again
Must not let it stop me
Will not let it

Riding alone
Surrounded by cadres of compadres
Walking alone
Surrounded by couples

Sit at the bar
Next to Santa and Vixen
They are here
To pick a wedding band

Groups of singles
Clumped by gender
Start to prowl
In a personality-free zone

The banal mating ritual
Positions itself
Between me and the band
My reason for coming

The elves arrive
Friends circle up
Sit on a stool
Between two backs

Shots lined up
Heads thrown back
I might just leave
After my own second drink

Checked the mail today
Received a letter
From the last person I kissed
Five months ago

I’ve had one date since then
Bullshit emails and lying texts
A momentary flirt over chat
With someone who wants someone else

Going alone at 7
Is different than going alone at 11
2 drink 2 hours
I’ve fulfilled my obligation to myself

Oh they just started playing
I like big butts
Now a little Journey
I’ll linger a few moments longer


Wednesday, November 10th, 2010

Grey and vascular

my old companion is stripped naked

the crowd around him, vainly dressed, flutters with mockery

he looks exhausted, bent, leaning

still standing tallest

yet the wind robs him mute

Do Not Feed

Wednesday, November 10th, 2010

Angry, stubborn

teeth misaligned

struggling to open

fingers precarious

I impose my will

open, close

it is put to right

damn zipper

From the 3 days that constituted “autumn”

Sunday, November 7th, 2010

It’s quiet this morning, cool breeze, light rain, a morning for resting your head on someone special.

It’s that time again, when the heat dissipates and reveals a secret beauty. Nature sheds it’s stifling raiment and bears its soul to those who are aware.

I am raw, unprotected.

More Train Dreams

Wednesday, March 24th, 2010

It is very grey outside

and dozens of white ticket stubs stand erect from the tops of seats like prairie flora,

all leaning left as though the wind were blowing.

The violin and windchimes through my earphones invoking a sense of feudal anime.

The intensity of the music grows, a severe whisper,

and I anticipate the man speeding silently through the white bent grasses in hakama, bearing a sword.

But really, it’s New Jersey.

I peer across the tops of the white grasses;

my eyes bear left thirty degrees and I spot the electrical wires and eight-unit cinderblock apartment complexes.

Breathy flute reminds me that I would rather be dreaming of the field, heavy with silence.

The stirring winds call me to dance.

Who am I? The grass? The silent man?

Or am I across the field, waiting for him to put down the sword and rush home?

The Secret of Kells

Thursday, March 11th, 2010

I saw Kells. I am still is a daze, a dream that was shared in an intimate cinema, listening to the sighs of the people with me.

It didn’t even spoil the dream that I knew the mysterious ink-producing berries were actually oak gall– which develop when a wasp lays its eggs in leaf buds– or that it’s called illumination because the gold leaf laid over bole reflects the candlelight, causing it to glow and appear three-dimensional. It made me want to play Celtic music again, to pull out the bodhrán, whistle, or psaltry. To Take my Celtic art books off of the shelf. To run to the medieval library at school where I know my prof left his Book of Kells.

I observed the spirit of the forest and reminisced about the volumes of fairy lore I used to devour when no one would come into the sandwich shop on the corner of Boylston and Tremont. I looked at the design and saw the Greek keys, recalling how the Irish were the greatest early theologians of Greek in western Europe. I saw the mound with the tower in the center and remembered grading all those quizzes discussing ringforts and motte-and-baileys. I listened to the stories of Iona and recollected the distinctive Irish monasticism, the penitentials, and how monks such as Columba and Columbanus came to the continent and inspired monastic reform. I watched the dark angular Vikings attack, and looked ahead to their future when they would settle in England and one of their own, Cnut, would be king.

And somehow, all of this knowledge did not break the film’s spell, but in fact, history was made more enchanting.

I am near another place, and it is sweet and warm and calming yet invigorating. I can feel it on the other side of my eyes, the warmth, and my eyes moisten from the desire to see it more clearly. And I strain to hear wind but am interupted by the chime and voice saying: “stand clear of the closing doors.” And so I unfocus my eyes in an attempt to unsee what  is around me. I speak my own words over and over in order to unhear the surrounding crowd. The chime. I push it from my ears. But in my struggle, the song is slipping, the song that draws me into the dream. Sharply pulled back by abrupt Spanish behind me. The warmth in my eyes and ears keeps me one step from the real. The point of heat on the back of my head is the dream into which I am trying to retreat. But I am facing forward, and the train lurches. And I notice…two more stops…and I feel my cheeks losing warmth and my vision losing its glow. The world is growing dark and sharp, and the amber edges fade into tile and cement, and one more stop. I just noticed that I haven;t been listenng to my iPod the entire time. The gal next to me has the most yellow skin I have ever seen. It’s glows unnaturally under her dark blonde hair, or is it the light? And my stop.

It’s times like this that I want to share the rapture, of a film, of a song, of a train ride that may never have existed.

Thanks, Darwin

Wednesday, June 10th, 2009

I’m not sure why
I showed you my insides.
Did I want an ear, a hug,
a who knows what? And then,
I backed out.
It didn’t feel right.
The same conversations,
our stories repeat.
We aren’t making stories
cuz we like different stories.
And I find that here
I make stories alone, it seems.
I imagine someone to share it with,
someone who gets it.
And I don’t get you either,
though not in an fun way, but in a
way I know that others get you
and before I knew you I knew I wouldn’t.
I had no space in my heart or my head, really,
to let you in, and I’m sorry for that.
It’s the nature of things, and we know
nature is cruel.
I’m not the fittest but I always survive.
Did I want an affirmation
it’s ok to be me?

Very brief free-write

Saturday, October 25th, 2008

I had “The Devil Wear Prada” on while working on an annotated bibliography tonight. It made me wonder if I got too wrapped up in my career as a scholar. I wrote this in response to my thoughts and actions:

I cried just a little today.
I did not have your shoulder or chest to put my head,
so I rested it on my books.

I feel like this is as appropriate now as it was two years ago when I wrote it

Monday, October 20th, 2008

You say that you’re so bad for me,
But you’re no worse for me than me.
All the self-defeat, the poor self-image-
It’s my previous life that did the damage.

You didn’t tell me when I wasn’t getting better.
I didn’t tell you when you were getting worse.
We cared too much to hurt each other,
and it’s pulling us apart.
Where do we start?
How about here.
When did we fall in love?
How about now.