Make Love to Blank Notebooks

#30

2005-04-30T17:44:00.000-07:00

I hope you know

how much I hope

for you, and how

excited I

am to love you.

#29

2005-04-29T17:49:00.000-07:00

I sit here

cold

already wondering

if i've done something

that's ruined your

life.

Mary, little sister

Mary, little sister.

#28v1.2 (me experimenting with different forms of poetry)

2005-04-28T17:20:00.000-07:00

Acrostic:

Brother, we are closer than no other sibling you have.

Remember that picture of us where we look like twins?

Only you can say such terrible things and forget it.

Trying to get you to think rationally is impossible.

How can you not realize that you are not the best ever?

Either you are afraid of the truth or you are asleep.

Right now I am worried about you.

Three clerihews:

Sarah Diane Madery

your fingers are eerie.

You're soft like a marshmallow

I grinned at your bellow.

Elizabeth Schort

wrote her report

with in mechanical pencil

without my counsel.

Ms. Sheri Marie

grinning with glee

gave birth to a girl

with dark hair in a whorl.

Lanturne:

Frogs

keep me

company

here on the curved

road.

Nonet:

I sometimes wish I had accepted

your offer--friendly benefits.

Except, I heard you kiss like

a fish. All right, I guess

I'm just a little

lonely sometimes.

Not so much

that I'd

call.

Quinzaine:

For now I am so flighty.

I will outgrow this,

will I not?

Tyburn:

Softest

Warmest

Bleakest

Cruelest

The softest, warmest pillow call me

back from the bleakest, cruelest morning.

Ha ha. Some of these forms seem so silly.

#28

2005-04-28T16:26:00.000-07:00

Brother

it scares me

to think of

your children.

I wish

for you

peace.

#26, #27, #27.5

2005-04-28T09:36:00.000-07:00

#26

crushing ants under-

foot is nothing until I

grow embarrassed. Then

I sweep them gently away

into their ruined kingdom.

#27

Eight

hours. Then

I will see

my sister for

once.

#27.5

She

does not

look like me.

Difficult to

know.

#25

2005-04-26T15:28:00.000-07:00

(26 will come either tomorrow or later tonight...haven't written it yet. eep eep.)

I have straightjacket-

ed myself with this

unmowed laziness. Like a

sad muscle, my

willingness has a-

trophied. Like a sad

insect, I am tan-

gled in the silken threads of

my indulgence.

Sad little girl, you

think far too much. Be

like a particle

and let go: up and down, just

go and do. Ea-

sier said than done.

. Sad empty pa-

per, like a cup, you

wait to be filled. Like a cup,

to overflow

sometimes. I will, might.

#24.5

2005-04-25T10:41:00.000-07:00

(note: today's poem will be posted tomorrow, because I am supposedly grounded from the computer at home and i have class tonight. right.)

*for Kyle*

Kyle. You/

make me smile.//

#24

2005-04-24T15:36:00.000-07:00

speaking in tongues, i

guess i want to be able to

make noise freely.

It was never something

I was any good at.

#22, #23

2005-04-23T16:16:00.000-07:00

#22

It's scary to realize that

I've fallen out of the mating

game. I don't have anything

to prove to anyone, anymore.

I'm not here to impress anyone.

There's no one to impress.

I'm worried that I'm losing

sight of the single most important

function/goal of living beings: sex.

Without sex, what kind of animal am I?

#23

I'm relieved to see

that it is snowing today,

even though it is the end

of April. There is something

terrifying, to me, about spring.

Some strange and sad

depression in the sunlight

that signifies an end.

The snow reminds me of

November, which, though near

the end of the calendar year,

for me is a beginning. I love

being caught between the crisp

orange brownness of autumn

and the sleek, black cold of

winter. Being caught between

mud and sunlight is unnerving,

and I hope it snows all night.

#20, #21

2005-04-21T19:14:00.000-07:00

(Okay, so both of these seem to just be thoughts broken into lines. D'oh.)

#20 Little Brown Shoe

Oh, little brown loafing

shoe. Each day I pass you

on the highway, and I wonder,

who left there, and how, and why?

I wonder if they think about you.

I hope nothing strange and bad

happened to the little boy who

used to wear you. I hope that you

are insentient and so do not miss

your partner. Oh, shoe, little shoe.

I think about you so often--if only

I thought as often about my homework.//

#21 Friendship

Lately,

though it feels like

an eternity,

I have been disillusioned

with relationships.

I know what you are thinking

and it's not true (I've never

had a boyfriend at all). I

just can't seem to understand

the mechanics of friendship

these days. I am not sure how

it works, how one goes about

making and having friends.

It seems so mysterious and

far-fetched, like Vatican City,

and speaking Vietnamese in

Jackson. People keep confusing

me when they talk about their

friends. I can't seem to figure it out.

I think that I am broken, like a

doll that no one wants to play with

anymore. I feel invisible, like I

am not really here. Maybe that

is why I can't understand humanity.

Like a ghost, I am slipping through

some freezing crack, my business

finished so thoroughly that I can't

remember what it was.//

#19

2005-04-19T18:33:00.000-07:00

I began life

As something less

Than but like a worm,

And something more,

Something else entirely,

Though similar.

My change was an

Obvious one, not so much

A change, as a simple

Stretching of my frame.

I am still

The same out there.

In my pictures I

Look like me every year

Until I stop smiling

For awhile. Then

I look like me not smiling.

That doesn’t mean anything,

Especially since I don’t

Photograph well.

In there I am still

The same, too. My desires

Are simple and obvious as ever:

Food, shelter, naps.

Skin, warmth, the odd ray of sunlight.

Petty things, the slime of

My mind, are what’s different.

Yet. Again, the simple

Stretching of me is all that

Is new. Yet. Yet. Yet!

I am waiting to be

More than a worm.

I am hoping to be

More than a worm.

I believe I began to be

More than a worm, oh

Yet.

#16, #17, #18

2005-04-18T18:29:00.000-07:00

Sorry again for the lateness. I've been laid up with some horrid minor illness, and also I've been at my father's house over the weekend, the land which suddenly is without a usable computer.... Excuses, excuses. But I really did write these when I should have. PS> i hope you know that i know these are terrible and unpolished.

#16

We the people/ are abominations/ beyond masking. We are/ animals without nature,/only the leafy residue/ of the native things--/the birds and mammals,/ the reptiles and bacteria, all living/ things which act with/ a reasoning beyond our ken.//

We are the unatural one,/ the freaks--not the exquisite/ corpse that we see as/ "our" world to use and destroy./ The native things are are kind--/letting us play as we will,/ like mothers tolerant of small children./ But the earth is unforgiving; she will/abandon our malformed sensibilities/ with a molten spray of "good riddance."/ The natie will not blame us,/ though they be deserted by Mother, too.//

(I know, I know.)

#17

My collarbones are blooming/ out of this garment of flesh./ They look like wings looming/ up under my scared and detatched face.//

Sonnet about Bones:

Can you believe it, that these bones/ belong to me? Under my skin,/ they settles, cozy in this home/ that they have made for themselves. Thin/ layers of flesh create a wing/ on each side of my heart. My eyes/ grow wide at the flutter and fling/ of my bones reaching for the skies./ Now they want to shed this garment./ I cling to them bones with my hand,/ too small, and they rip the parchment./ I want them to stop now, to land./ But the long bones, they are lifting./ They leave me and won't stop lifting.//

#18

When I am a bird,

I will be a red bird

with bones that you can put

flowers and feathers in to.//

I will be the kind of bird

who builds nests for a living,

for birds who work too much.//

I will be the kind of bird

who children draw with crayons

the exact color of my wings.//

When I fly I will keep my

eyes shut until I remember

that I am a bird and don't

need to be afraid of heights.//

When I fly I will soar bouncingly

the way I do in dreams, only

nothing will be chasing me.

Least of all gorillas. //

When I am a dead bird,

I will make my bones

into instruments for small boys,

and I will put my red feathers

in little girls' hair. The children

will find my nests and make

good use of them. //

#15

2005-04-15T19:27:00.000-07:00

I heard seagulls in the distance.

Romantically, the way I am, I

pictured them white and clear against

perfect flat blue sky, gold-orange

sand, swatches of green for the

tops of palm trees. Dark bright

blue ocean rolling beneath it all.

Blinking out of my delerium,

shaking the sand from the cuffs

of my pants, I realized that

it was only a run-time error

on this computer, a computer as

old as I am, squeaking much like

those seagulls.

#14

2005-04-15T11:13:00.000-07:00

(sorry for the lateness. I came home yesterday and pretty much died. I didn't get up until like 17 hours later. Sniff sniff. I may have mono!!)
notochord curling
emerald translucence
feel muck in cells
legacy of water.
OR
I can feel my phantom
notochord curling youngly
on a background of emerald
translucence, and the pattern on
the ceiling of water reflecting.
I can feel the ancient muck in my cells
during this, my delirium.
I can feel my confusion as
clearly as I can feel myself
turning into an ancient and
cool, slimed beast. Their legacy is
the water, and in this water, unfriendly water
which I drown in. It gushes around
my teeth, and I am afraid. To feel myself.

#13 The phone rings

2005-04-13T19:32:00.000-07:00

The phone rings

and I have to tie myself down.

I am used to lunging off

my butt, tottering

into the kitchen to answer it.

When the phone rings

it is never for me

anymore. I can hear

the phone ringing an hour

away and I know it is for you.

I want the phone to ring here,

but am relieved when

it does not, because I wouldn't

know what to say to you.

Anyway, now I have to

spend my time making new

excuses about why nothing

ever gets done, now. Maybe I can

say that my mind is going;

I barely remember you

and I as what we used

to be, now. I don't, anymore.

#12 Frogs

2005-04-12T17:18:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamed about

the frogs across the road.

I know I keep talking about them.

But they are loud. When the

windows of my room are open,

their singing hurts my ears.

My dream was that I was

in the marsh with the frogs,

and they were teaching me

to sing.

I woke up, feeling wet and cold,

and looked out the open window,

rubbing my ears.

In the dark, blue water they

were sitting, black eyes unblinking.

They were wondering about me.

#11 (no title) (yesterday's poem)

2005-04-12T08:57:00.000-07:00

I got back from my class last night and almost passed out. So I wasn't able to post. Ha. Like anyone is really sitting around, fretting. :) Here we go:

I bought a little castle

at a yard sale--25 cents

It had battlements

A moat

Towers, where princesses might live

I turned it over and around

again and again

Looking for a way inside.

#10 Here's to You, Angela, and Me (and You), respectively

2005-04-10T16:25:00.000-07:00

(I Couldn't decide which one embarrassed me more, so here we go with both.)

I wanted to talk

to you about how

it really made me

feel--all shame aside.

Listen for once in

our time together,

okay, Angela?

I know that you used

me. Okay, you’ve been

using me ever

since ninth grade. Yeah, we’ve

had some fun, I know.

I wrote a poem

about our FriDays.

I didn’t know I

was your token of

some inner conquest--

ha ha. But really.

It took you breaking

through the barriers

that I had built for

a reason--making

me feel…flattered, I

guess, for a minute--

then confusing and

shaming me in one

dark session of your

masturbation: more

than a kiss, and less

than one. A secret

you willingly gave

away, undoing me

for a time. You didn’t

count on my quick lies.

They were good. Every-

one knew you were cracked.

I looked at you that

morning in horror:

“Why did you tell them?”

I looked at you and

thought: You used me to

get him. Your sick brain.

Sick sick Angela.

Okay. I wanted to

tell you that I

know it happened, and

okay, I was curious.

It wasn’t worth the

confusion. You were

not worth the FriDays.

I wanted to tell

you that. Yours Truly.//

The image of my ribcage

opens up

and bleeds into the mirror

foggily

I bet I can remember

the fire-sore

happiness I felt, oh so

momentarily.

I recall a brief frenzy

with a knife

taken from the kitchen on

one dark night.

I wasn’t showing you. I

think, maybe,

I was showing everyone.

I didn’t

see your face. I didn’t feel

naked. My

ribs lifting and burning and

falling and

creaking, my corset of fire,

I once said

in another poem in

this quaint vein.

That’s all I can remember.

Me. Me. Me.//

#9 Of a Future

2005-04-09T17:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I’d like

to sneak away

to emerald

green lawns and white

picket fences.

I’d like to stay

there by the sill

waiting for the

pies to cool. I

want, sometimes, to

marry young, raise

one boy one girl,

perfect and blond;

wear red lipstick,

a white apron.

Sometimes I want

to be mindless,

my life mapped out

for me--each blade

of emerald

I step on, planned

for. I’d like to

bake cakes, scramble

eggs, clean all day,

smile plastic-ly;

Pink sponge rollers

in my hair. Alas!

but I seem doomed

to a life of

choice, trial and

error, a road

as yet unpaved:

the horrible

uncertainty

of a Future.

#8 Scrappy haiku

2005-04-08T14:46:00.000-07:00

Blue marsh water ripples

Around struggling reeds. The tops

Are green from the sun.

#7

2005-04-07T16:16:00.000-07:00

I saw a group of people today,

with slanting black eyes and black hair.

All of them spoke to each other

in the flickering, the fluttering,

of an alien tongue. Their words sounded

like sprinkling seeds and cooked peas

onto a tin roof. I watched

their pretty children play with onions,

the little girl with round ears and

a small koala bear strapped to her side.

I moved my tongue secretly,

fluttering inside my native mouth.

My words sounded like the slow clanging

of a white-painted Protestant church’s bells

bought by a man selling Bibles to hobos.

I felt huge and ungraceful. Their tongues

tapped and rattered around in their foreign

heads. I want to believe

that to speak such a quick and fluttery tongue

would rattle away my fears.

I want to believe

that it is better somewhere else, that we

will be safe there. I have to remember that we

each have a tongue, two eyes, and wear shoes.

It wouldn’t be any better, only different, and

I would worry for different reasons.

#6 Medley*

2005-04-06T18:25:00.000-07:00

Last night my pepsi/

can began humming/

by my ear./

The frogs were howling/

in reply. I turned the/

ceiling fan on, remembering/

the burst of electricity.//

It was hard for me/

to stay asleep, last night,/

with them crooning/

in my ear; I wanted to/

sing along, but I can't sing./

Those frogs sure can./

The railroad tracks are/

a little rusty. Well, so's the fan.// (*not feeling very inspired today....)

#5 Two Stones On a Bank

2005-04-05T16:37:00.000-07:00

Two smooth stones/

sit side by side on/

the bank. They//

watch the sun/

reflecting off of/

the water.//

They watch the/

river rush on by./

For a long//

time they watch,/

and are content. They think/

they will be//

dry on the/

bank for always. One/

day one stone//

grows restless./

The river widens,/

and water//

laps at the/

stones’ edges. The stone/

beside it//

shrinks away./

But the first stone likes/

the cool, new//

kiss of blue./

She likes the feel of/

the current.//

The second/

stone is afraid. She/

shivers at//

the wetness./

The bank grows steeper./

The first stone//

is nudged/

free of the old bank,/

and sails past//

and away/

on the current. The/

second stone//

pretends to/

not notice. She is/

still afraid.//

#4 Painting

2005-04-04T19:07:00.000-07:00

I think I'll start by painting/

the whole page light demin blue,/

with pink and yellow and more blue/

along the seam across the middle./

I'll wait for it to dry.//

I'll paint the clouds light grey/

like smoke. But it's too early/

in the year to paint smoke in the sky./

At least it is still light out.//

I'll paint the branches black/

like a barcode. I'll paint/

those branches long and old, vibrating/

with the howl of the frogs.//

I'll paint a gray-green marsh,/

muddy and dark, foggy/

along the bottom of this paper/

here. The frogs can go there./

The fairytales can go there.//

I'll paint an abscence of moon/

and stars. It's spring now, and/

we needn't rely on them any longer./

Maybe I will paint your long hands, tapping/

the frog's pebbled fluting out along my spine.//

(you may be interested to know that when I typed "frog" the first time, I really typed "grof".)

#3 Feet

2005-04-03T14:57:00.000-07:00

Less of a poem and more of a list and a brainstorm broken into stanzas. I'll try to cough up a haiku or something to count for my Poem-A-Day, though.... I'm not very good at this. I am so not good at this.

I pursued a little girl once,/ my camera in hand…/ She had white hair and dark eyes/ and the most beautiful tiny feet./ She hid from me; I snapped/ Photo after photo of the carpet/ Where those toes had been seconds before.//

There was woman with green high heels/ At the table next to me in the coffeehouse./ I loved those shoes--apple green/ And they reminded me of the shoes/ That Barbie Doll once wore.//

My mother has witch feet,/ According to my dad./ Her big toes cross the rest/ As though protecting them./ I used to rub her feet with cocoa butter/ For fifty cents at a time. For awhile/ I had a regular gig.//

My sister has beautiful feet,/ Long and elegant and bony./ I like to look at her feet in her long/ Striped socks. I like to grab her feet/ And tickle them until she screams/ And hits me with her long, pretty hands.//

(I love to hold the paws of dogs and cats/ But the rubber-boot feet of caterpillars scare me./ I would like to have a chicken’s foot/ To write about, to draw symbols with my mind.)//

People give me funny looks when I/ Shoot pictures of their shoes./ They give each other funny looks/ When I talk about the smell of feet/ Rich and fruity like an old apple/ And how I love to breathe it in.//

There is something oddly grounding/ About a foot in its sock and shoe,/ About the human smell of skin,/ The way babies curls their little toes./ There is something strangely beautiful/ About the bones of a foot, and the ripple of blue/ Veins along the arch, like a butterfly’s wings/ Or the cage that holds my heart.//

One stray foot crushes/

a family of ants. The/

queen is devastated.//

#2.333-- Non-poem in psuedo-poem format!

2005-04-02T20:35:00.000-08:00

Awesome! I/

am unraveling/

the mysteries of..../

BLOGSPOT DOT COM!/

whose evil intricacies/

perplexed me all today/

I am figuring/

out how to do things, so/

...yay for me. Hah.//

#2 When I Die

2005-04-02T16:09:00.000-08:00

I am feeling seriously uninspired. This is all I came up with. But. Well. A poem is a poem, it doesn't matter if it good or not, right? At least I put in a little effort. *sigh*

When I die, I hope you/

are happy for me.//

I hope I have lived long enough/

for you to be relieved.//

I hope you don't cry,/

just pray a little for my soul.//

I hope that you miss me, though,/

and I hope you don't embalm me.//

#1 Forgive Me

2005-04-01T17:58:00.000-08:00

Don’t forgive me, just accept/

that I am an animal today./

I am swift and sleek and desirable;/

I am wild and hungry and sniffing/

the wind, the grass, your hands./

I am licking and biting and growling;/

I am rolling in the dirt, the sun, naked,/

belly up. I will not comb my hair today, and/

I will chew on everything in sight, including/

or especially you. Don’t forgive me,/

just let me be--I am your animal today.//