Alfredo Impersonator

According to the local paper
the tides should have been high
& the sun should have been up &
I should have made contact
with those who make changes.

instead

it was the evening of the day
we went to her favorite
restaurant from last year &
their menu had completely changed;
once a seafood place
with a view,
now an almost Italian bistro
with marble & mirrors.

She had read that
persistence will bring rewards
& a stranger’s compassionate remark
would stimulate her sympathy for an underdog.

instead

we stormed out,
& ate a picnic
of peanut butter & jelly
on the beach
while waiting for our
horoscopes to come true.

Life Story VII

A daisy, a trail, something repeating.

Life Story V

Affinity for up past bed times.

Life Story IV

A matchstick, a strawberry, something circling.

Life Story III

Noun & verb collector & organizer.

Life Story II

Remote control smile (batteries not included).

200th post extravaganza

Remember when ?

Or when?

Or even that time when.

Yes, it has really been 200 posts.

Six-Word Memoir

Found this site. Then I submitted.

Summer Oven Letter

Dear Nana,

The weather here, hot. Slow burning heat your
toaster oven door left open & set to full
blackness burning bagels, bread, tiny
imitation pizzas into dessicated cardboard
landscapes pockmarked & cratered, no hours of
clear water revival can revert post mark lost
stamp torn off, a pile of paper in your foyer
& puzzles tied with a twine string, just, stillness.
vacuumed silence aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa sliced & served
with a small plastic cup revealing your voyages to
Colonial Williamsburg, Bermuda, or Disneyland time-traveling
mementos documenting weather patterns in letters
How many squirrels did you see today?
Certainly more than me. I have 73 channels to
flip through compared to your fuzzy five
so time exploring the yard, the garage,
the basement, memories, weather, took precedent to
TV dinners fishamajigs & a sinking slow heat
seeping through storm doors vacuum packages &
your places for hiding money--plastic children's cups
I think--palmed bills warm from your hands,
I know you saw squirrels today.
........................................................ XOXO Chris

i did not see jenny

i saw a man
cleaning out

the pond

brushing
the water

pure

dropping
the everyday
slop

a cigarette butt
a fast-food cup

to find
fish &
turtles

ecosystem eyes

honey suckle
vines

french toast
flowers
enveloping

a tree

drawing from
her water.

W.E.B. Du Bois can you really stack books that high?

aaaa I am afraid of your elevator
with dings metering a breaking
building's heartbeat

its windows popping in pressure
its roots sinking in a
design that did not account

for the weight of words

squeezing bricks
from the tower walls

in an
architecture of tears

When a weatherman speaks

people sometimes listen. At the church

turned concert hall the sign said
no flash photography, no recording devices

but she snuck in a microphone for Jenny anyway,
that distinct possibility of rain

not even an option in her eyes
blue with wisps of cloud grey,

today could be perfect.

juice box, discovery!

a recyclable
cardboard carton,
corners bent
vein lines indents

gold, yellow, sweet

absorbing the spill
a history book
my parents would
have to pay for

after running bases
brick schoolyard bully
stepped on my lunch

pasteurized, concentrated

the catalogue
of knowledge
now an
autumn breeze
from Vermont.

50 Titles (of poems I would not write)

protein pills
other natural flavors
not really a doctor
whale watching in the rain
vintage contemporaries
do not install backwards
handbook of knee surgery
rejected thank you notes
a fruit with no name
eaten straight from the box
dishes done
this bag is not a toy
bound by the conditions
nexus point reentry
a tape, not an apple
the end of aquifers
operating manual for a segue
mr. clean goes to france
i've got pop-tarts
Oh, Auden said everything
sponge identity
antisocial radar
fight night at the Lenig's
a man with a glass eye
the house that was not level
a beach with mosquitos
bedpan technician
closed doors mean secret meetings
talking behind your back
hard, modern edges
new dirt
the importance of flossing
sex, interrupted
a fruit much like a beer can
complimentary copy
there are no self-serve gas stations in New Jersey.
a day at the craft fair
LOWERCASE
income tax evasion
a conversation on speakerphone with grandma
peeling second-degree sunburn
a trail of carbon footprints
on conserving electricity
that's just too bad.
the moon in full sunlight
a can opener for poetry soup
conditioned air
landfill at noon
licking letters
not valid with any other offers

delayed breakup poem

[feeling a loss of control, I
fall back on my mother’s tendency
to clean and make lists]
..........................spending June on the west coast
..........................escaping you, I replay Honey and the Moon
..........................and remember how you never called me honey
[my mother knows diligence
and anorexia, but I
lack her self-control]
.......................... spending June up north, spinning like snow
.......................... memory on repeat of you brushing your teeth
.......................... never calling me honey
[my mother teaches me
insomnia and to hold on
for the sun]
.......................... spending June in darkness, time moves
.......................... like muted moons, eclipsing me with
.......................... your silence
[one day I find
flowers, my mother’s
favorite medicine]
.......................... leaving for green orange groves down south,
.......................... I forget you and the moon
.......................... and spend June in the sun

Warm December

Sunlight flowers in winter:
one morning you brought them to me
so I could breathe
forsythia.

Yellow salve in the sky
on Christmas Eve. (The next day gray,
we suffocated in its
congested color,

longed for yesterday.)
As if sun tea on the deck,
clear cold steeps ripe red
and yesterdays become

wept pools of snow
feeding the early forsythia.

ghostblogger

blogger forgot about me
as if i were winter
and he'd already moved
on though spring and into
the sweat of summer

in my search for self
i found three other blogs
i'd never created, but all
set to my own email address:
unwritten identities

mylashes.blogspot.com,
379.blogspot.com, and
pbandme.blogspot.com,
all with empty archives and
a total of 15 profile views

in a past life i was a
ghostblogger

Competent

An Atlantic Engagement

The tide coming into shore slowly.

A rocky beach, for looking not swimming.

Careful steps onto outcroppings into the sound.

The sun a soup of reds & yellows.

Just enough light to reflect off of eyes &
a stone setting two lives to one.

an excuse

the macaroni stuck
to the red rust
black bottom
new release boilerplate
left handed, hates snow
tried to grow a moustache
& spots showed in the
stubble in the conversation
a pause, a dent, an aluminum scrape
heating away the hydrogen
perfect penne in 11-12
silent staring at the floor
at the coil of red metal
should be doing
without a timer
leftover
in the sink
two weeks later.

all those black & white photos you take

A close-up of a single
flower in a field

stems & specks of
white in the back

& an abandoned
crumbling stone house

blurry. Just the daisy
confident, certain of the sun

in love.

Jenny + Chris

Asteroids

Word Find 3

Jenny

A wordmonster by Jenny: Chris

Jen's Bio Paper

Aquifer awareness is
not a priority
in the realm of
conservation consciousness

pocket compost (poetry fusion with Erin & Emily)

snow melting, a grayscale
reduction to green, a drip
drop a stream sputtering a (seasonal)
war’s last bombshells.

ice shattering like teacups
against a wall, she picked
up a fragment to remember
where winter is real a

long, fat torpedo of ice
put in her pocket.
She came home to me melting,
the middle of school longing to

be mine & slipping love notes
into her pockets without eye contact
the folded sailboats float,
skimming over the ice

my latest invasion of space, the sailboats paper bouquets
slowly unzipping, memories
discharged; you brushing your teeth,
orange slice shadows—the half moons

glowing peeled &
I threw them away before you were
ready, so now you collect
a stream in your pocket, as not to forget

winter, oranges, & the moon.

WAL-MART REX, a word monster by Jenny

finger food

my fingers picked up
lunch from
the doorknob--double
bacon cheeseburger grease &
fries with mayo-- for
half price

bedtime

spring [fixer]

push through papers
white winter in reams
& listen

a shuffle a sorting
an arrangement made
to

put away the old
cold papers blanketing
the garden

no they aren't fertilizer
but a type of
scythe

to cut & paste a
way the waste
& peel

& bloom & whisper
the slow sound
of growing aaaaa .

spring [throwback SPINBALL FIGHT]

cultural currency update
while white computer screens
load
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa a walk in
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa crunching snow
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa white indents
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa foot prints
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa perfect for
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa packing
instant access
rolling down scrolling snowballing
screen
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa collecting
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa in drifts
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa each unique
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa crystal
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa blends to
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa pure vanilla
(democratic) society is
based on consensus, a
percentage of agreeability
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa the tighter
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I pack flakes
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa between red
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa mittens the
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa more time she
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa has to throw
just two sides shaping
policy & echo chambers
reinforcing ideas
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I am intentionally
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa missing her; snow
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa over shoulder
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa just
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa the sound
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa slipping by
influencing events
through the exclusion
of information
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa she knows
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I am missing
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa & when I
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa hit her in
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa the back a
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa puff of snow
spin a ball of flattery
a snow job to
crystallize public opinion
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa leaning low
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa as she aims
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa for my head,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waiting for
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa an icy
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa blast
a two-way flow
of snow
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa warm breath
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa from my mouth
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa to hers
or nothing at all.

spring [opening]

when the trees
wake up &
the grass smells
& the leaves
smell & the small
birds sing, sing &
feed their young
& sing & rain is warm
it smells & sings as it
drizzles in the sun
drops on the leaves
catches on blades
collecting in drops
it all sings

spring .

why Jenny doesn't go in the water

something at the seashore a stick
or a lost plastic toy shovel something at the
shore nipping the back of her leg a
bag swinging from her back swishing as
she walks something forgot a snack a carryall something
tapping her heal in uncomfort for a moment
when eyes close the flash image that remains
the unknown a clump in the sand unconscious connecting
cheap rubber plastic sandal while walking
splinters stuck in sand a stick for the umbrella
poking objects just below the surf & her
father pulling a three foot sandshark out
angles in the wake a pull sand over toes
on his fishing line just beyond where we swim
sure she will carry the brown bag & keep the sand out
we swim where we dodge a wave or put up a screen
a scream against the washing away the fading a
way something at the sore sun burnt shoulders toes
always burnt where the sandal slips between the
big toe & that unnamed next toe a space for skin
to peel a grape a juice box a novel something sticking
in the sand a stick or a lost toy shovel made of
yellow plastic where is the missing bucket buried
beneath lurking in the darkness the sand below the water
shed the moist brownie inside just below the surface
keep the sand out collecting in the bag bottom
flushed away washed away torn out a subscription
the hook remained in the spotted shark’s skin a
hermit crab carryall a grape peeled sun burnt skin
the castle that we built washed away the next morning with
the tide carrying bags a snack chairs water wears glass
dull a grape without the skin blushing nipping
fingertips while swimming putting up a screen
invisible line between hook and hand
a juice box a sandal slipping from aloevera
between the toes the ground looks brown behind
glasses dropped in surf scuttle like a crab
white on top pulled reeled like a plastic toy
a stick a shovel a castle made of sand white
underneath cloths shorelines in skin never
on a boat without a life preserver a stick
plastic probably a safety whistle to call
for help an invisible line snagged in surf footprints
one missing a sandal plastic slipping away
half a print overexposed toe red severe sun burnt purple
grape great gatsby on the beach read something
sappy something juicy candy a stick of gum with
a whistle plastic inside that you dropped in the
sand put at the top as a flag foot for the castle
a slip up a tide shift the music of a vendor in
a refrigerated truck novelty dug deep brownie
coloured to protect the eyes reuses the grains
a little cake made with the hands a foundation
glass with edges worn dull pulling the pop
dug deep from the leaking steaming cold
spritz splash the noise of a wave crash lurking refrigerated
juice box a stick with chocolate frozen to it
a drop clumped in the sand snagged the hook sunk
a bucket looks lost without a plastic shovel a toy
a tradition a snapping a roar as the shark breaks free
as the beach renews with tide tables a white shoreline
brownies near the surf near the wake a fading footprint
a scuttle a skirmish running away from a stick, a shovel
or a shark.

greg on the typewriter

so small
his fingers
could not
put enough
pressure
on the keys
to form
language.

Word Find Fun #1

The refrigerator is empty

& I stand
frozen &

waiting with
the little bulb

reflecting off
the blank

white corners
groceryless.

Class Notes: Rule #35

RT476

on my lap
over yesterday's Times
I pour,
from a silver
magic thermos
bullet container,
tea.

eighty
miles-per-hour
forty
sips-per-minute
photosynthesized &
dried leaves delivering
a fix.

two hours in a
car, the bead seat
cover becomes you,
& I forget where
I am going
if the audio book
is good.

all driving
distances
should be diluted--
a scoop of sugar
& stirred with
crème--a voice
reading to me

old bedtime stories,
a tale of a whale
the highway washing
headlights & redlights
as landfalls
in crystal blue
eyes.

Class Notes: A Communication Model

the goose at 589

Canada has covered the field
with a gaggle of goose, not geese.
Passports not valid,
vacation in the states.

Citizenship shifting,
a honking sound
traffic on 84 North shifting
to 15 North honking at the border,

What is the purpose of your visit?
What are you here to see?
Travel is more instinct, seasons change
& people must move.

How I passed the Comprehensive: Lights out at 7:30, a poem.

Top drawers no longer
mine filled with

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa socks too small
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa for my feet.

he is growing up
He is growing out
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa His space extends
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa beyond bunk beds.

The bookshelves are packed
stacked with old volumes

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Sherlock Holmes handed down
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa & blocked out by a plastic fire truck.

“I lost my first tooth today”
pressed under a pillow

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa that smells of apple juice
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa not sweat.

a first grader who wants
to be a fireman (not a writer)

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa HE is growing up
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa HIS brother is growing out.

Ring around
the rim
a tea-stained
history

waking up & putting the
water on to boil

a new day viewed on old computers

coffee instead of tea

finding an escape from lines of houses

going to sleep past your bedtime

no, it was just an ordinary day
no idea of suburban choke
no way out of a street named after a
president whose name sounds
like a candy.

no, it was building in routine
the time it takes to travel to from a lab &
back & to sweep the floor of a church
for an extra hundred dollars a week.

no, it was growing up, or growing out
remodeling a railway that died in the
sixties, keeping track of hockey players stats
cards that consoled when lined up

and never running away from shadows

the track shifted &
connected to a refinery, a plant
to process the sweet particles
for children's confections

a before & after image

his model railway had
stopped running--plastic people
frozen, dust collecting on their
caps--the times tables
redrawn

nine years since the meltdown

watching time pass in piles of snow

the long weekend, enhanced by snowfall

a disruption, days change meaning, zodiac signs
2,ooo years off in the sky determine
my daily, readable mood

scooped with tea, while waiting for channels to change

a silent sky of snow falls like static, muted

Caught on my tongue, words melt.

START/END

Sugar, when five pounds piled, looks like snow but tastes sweeter.

Anniversary Extravaganza

we have been here
one year--
one hundred thirty-three
posts--

one site
grounded
in cyberspace.

a vist, a walk, a history lesson

warmups & fabric wraps to keep out the wind off the river of ice lined with unnamed statues, so that we all can be a preacher or puritan if we want, or maybe no one remembers the names of those people anymore, they are locked away in archives & literature tests, street-names & the foundations of churches & squares easy pairs like mittens or socks that match, wrap & hold together feedback upon themselves crystalizing at the right temperature to hold time.

delinquent blogger updates

I will make my home

in a southern state (a blue state,

but warm enough to burn cheeks

red)

a home where we’ll name our

hurricanes

like children

watch them go:

Kyle breaks every window on the first floor

Emily smashes the car

the next year Victor floods the basement

a foot and a half of

ocean and rain

and busted pipes

(as long as they don’t break our hearts)

we’ll hang their satellite pinwheels

on the refrigerator

and sigh

they’re only young so long

before they’re gone

taking the basketball,

the cat,

and the

sound from the wind chimes

I’ll be old here

among orange trees, fruit rats, and the smallest

geckos we’ll ever see

darting

under

Spanish moss covered trees

dying like

ballerinas

covered in silver ribbons

pirouetting off a dark stage

gentle and beautiful,

quiet

like sleep

swing

we swing
aaaaaa with such an appreciation for snow
against gravity
aaaaaa it was in her nature to forget people’s first names
so many books you couldn’t breathe
aaaaaa soon she began to call everyone
john or betty
chains holding us tight
aaaaaa this is the kind of winter i can bear
when we would get a rip in out panty hoes
aaaaaa a free newspaper everyday
an apparent lack of colour leads the imagination to think of spring
aaaaaa green was his favorite colour
she would send us to the nurse to put an ace bandage on it
spring swing sing
aaaaaa i returned three books on & about Robert Lowell to the shelves
cheeky is not an American word
aaaaaa two flannel shirts the same colour, but with different designs
he tried revising poems years later
aaaaaa push me
an exploration of white space
aaaaaa cities are works of pure happenstance
the tilt of the earth causes climates causes biomes causes
aaaaaa concrete (poetry) to be less concrete & more free than paper
he highlighted texts
aaaaaa A MOVE OF THE CURSER NOT THE SCROLL
(nearly all the words so what was important
aaaaaa went unknown)
renaming the earth to reflect its watery nature
aaaaaa spacing comes into play, but not in the sense of
open field composition, but rather arbitrary fun.
aaaaaa perhaps using the wrong interpretation
half off all books lured me inside
aaaaaa a tale of going around or over the bar
the wood door to her room is broken
aaaaaa but you need the space to breathe
when escaping from a car that has driven into water do not panic
aaaaaa a misuse of vocabulary words
assembling is half the fun
aaaaaa a lock that won’t close
the circulation of air, hot rising, cool falling
aaaaaa a fist size shattering of wood
the top of the coffee tasted like roasted marshmallows
aaaaaa i saw my teacher in the bookstore
wait till the pressure has equalized before opening the door
aaaaaa a rush of wind, a gulping sound
windows will not crack from kicking or keys
aaaaaa a safe stocking stuffer
her room became warm because the thermostat downstairs was set to 75
aaaaaa things i forgot to do
yellow leaves on my floor with writing on them
aaaaaa perhaps you should have purchased that safety hammer from wal-mart
it was awkward and still, me with my hand on a book about Ezra Pound
aaaaaa old post it notes with the glue failing fall
winter without snow
aaaaaa you can make a sentence academic by inserting a term
a topic to write on
aaaaaa a list of due dates past
her mind always shut down when I started to talk of schools of poetry
aaaaaa i could collect them, pressing their patterns between book pages
after my teacher left i had a conversation with him
aaaaaa fascists can be fun sometimes
the cover is orange
aaaaaa cut into wedges, like a soccer game snack
frost in Florida
aaaaaa there in the crowded stacks warm with winter coats on
I bought a book by T.S. Elliot (I know Steve will be mad)
aaaaaa so to avoid a price hike we bought two bags
salt had been spread to keep students safe
aaaaaa a landing pad in the grass
but his poems were illustrated by Edward Gorey
aaaaaa a small peel goes well with wheat beer
the wood shook from the transfer of weight
aaaaaa not because it was cold, because it was alive.

set swing

Despite the sanding of wood &
tightening of screws, the swing
set in the backyard always
creaked & gave splinters.

Buried in slippery summer
hands--raisin pruned from the
pool or sweaty from a game
of tag--the shifting wood

fragments could be ignored

or brought to mother for surgery.

swing set (earth&memories)

ground between fingers after jumping
from the swing set, a landing pad
pierced the grass a

small cloud or poof of dust--
I can jump farther than you
higher than you

longer than you I am better
than you run faster than
you--rises & disappears

but we always land on the ground.

(retelling) hit and run

It wasn’t snowing but it certainly was grey
the way in which concrete reflecting off
concrete reflecting off steel can be &
my knee shot out--a bruise that shook through
The frame of a 70’s Schwin--limping not walking
gasping not breathing
after the accident.

911 took 40 minutes to come &
I wanted to ride in the back of the police car--
child locks and metal
mesh gratings a clear division of
power-- but the police are not a
public taxi service, even for those
with hit & run

busted bike wheels.

walk on campus (not a state poem but a rest stop for a snack)

The carbon cycle includes
converting CO2 to
oxygen through
photosynthesis
via plants.

naked
trees leave
the unrecycled
air cool & stale
with the scent of cheeseburgers.

There's no place like Kansas

There’s no place like
sunflower fields as far as the eye can see
the great plains where
people of the south winds
once hunted buffalo &
houses could fly from black & white
to colour.

There’s no place like
oceans of wheat
bending in the breeze
equidistance from
the Pacific & Atlantic,
a convenient central point
to start maps from.

There’s no place like
sharecropping in circles
and negros who speak of rivers
flowing from the state in
rural flight leaving
6,000 ghost towns
to the wind.

There is no place
like home.

a return to old projects: A celebration of 50 years

50 years ago they
were married,

Brooklyn NY & a
church with dancing.

Two years later Hawaii
became the 50th state.

Now they visit
in celebration of passing time

& bring coconut banks &
hula dolls back

for all their grandchildren.

early mornings in the house my father built

early morning and the sound of my dad's work shoes on the kitchen floor

leaving behind my great-grandmother's quilted coccoon for
orange slice shadows in the hallway and the cold wooden banister gripped
with tiny fingers so i wouldn't slip on the stairs in my
red flannel footie pajamas that haven't asked me to grow up, yet

six a.m. and bleary-eyed, my dad and his brief case in the kitchen
reading from a box of raisin bran with milk spilled on his tie
all grown up with three kids and a house he built himself
my mom still upstairs in their bed sleeping in his warm imprint

bright kitchen light and heat from the woodstove hot on my cheeks
standing on the botton stair, my voice squeeky with leftover sleep
my messy hair, curly like his, smoothed by his freckled hand
my dad calls me by a nickname that tells me i haven't grown up, yet

putting his brief case on the counter and cereal bowl in the sink
the volkswagen rabbit running rough, warming up, waiting for my dad
padding butter on a slice of white bread for me, crumbs fall snowy
on the sleeve of his navy blue suit, the one my mom says matches his eyes

early mornings i woke up for bread and butter and orange air
my grandmother's quilted coccoon waiting warm for me to return
with crumbs on my footie pajamas and a calmer collection of curls
after sharing my dad with the hot woodstove and quiet house

now i wake early mornings grown up, listening to my own work shoes on the kitchen floor

a NEW REVISED break in continuity, unless we consider frank from a state such as ohio; Frank on shoes:

why don’t you try on those shoes honey, they are nice, I mean I think they would be nice on you, look good & all, & probably comfortable like Sunday afternoon watching a movie like, what’s your favorite one? you know,

um, Must Love Dogs or something right? well, maybe sleeping, you know, sleeping late…long drives in the passenger seat with, with your feet up, going to the lake hmmm…what a fantastic Italian print on that one…Chinese food, you know, you know how the leftover stuff taste better somehow,

and being curled up on the couch with a movie or bagging a buck, huge rack and all, on the first day of the season or, or relieving like that time you thought I was cheating on you cause I was staying out late & lying & you found that little bottle of perfume in my pocket & everything, but, but then it was your birthday, it was real nice,

real relieving because I had been out late getting you all those nice gifts you know and maybe these shoes, these shoes they would be comforting like that or like coffee, morning coffee with all that flavored crap you like, you know the creamers caramel latte or peppermint twist stuff,

maybe like cleaning the house or when we put Frankie Jr. to sleep, I mean that wasn’t a good thing, but he was always snarling at children & too old to see you know, falling down the stairs & everything so it was kind of, it was kind of relieving to put him out of that pain, not have to worry or clean up after him anymore, & well I mean comforting

kind of like that TV show you watch all the time, you know, “What not to Wear” where they take all the person’s ugly old clothes & the shoes that the person thinks are nice but are nasty they are just awful & they throw ‘em out, well I hope they don’t throw ‘em out maybe just give ‘em to a Sal-Val or something like, even if the clothes are ugly a homeless guy could use ‘em, but you know those crazy hosts on that show Stacy & Clinton, they fix the person up right & neat & it’s fancy & then they are made over & everything is good like a big party because, you know…new shoes.

a poem from black friday: Jen at Macy's

Coded Death-Threat Written by Small Cousins After Thanksgiving Dinner, Maryland

Dear, Googs
sweat honey iced
tea you have
backwards octopus
Zach

on the Oberst's refrigerator

crayon, washable in looping squiggles,
not quite a rainbow, not quite a person
but a family none the less, together.

taken down.

connect the dots ripped
out of a couloring book
after learning how to count.

taken down.

a tracing of a hand, fingertip
feathers yellow, red, &
blue with a beak on the thumb

taken down.

an A- state spelling test
Mississippi & Missouri correct
but Coneticut caused problems.

taken down.

I want to be a fireman, I
want to be an architect, I want
to be a musician.

taken down.

a bundle of receipts, yellow &
white, crumpled & signed
to keep track of the money going out

taken down.

my family is reduced to names
on a shopping list, one square of
wants & a hope for a phone call.

for the sake of continuity, this could count as PA--a poem called: The Student Union

The fountain in the Alumni Plaza is
shut off. Its faux-riverbed dry.
All the pennies have been scooped out,
wishes spent.

Six sickly trees have given their all to fall
& trampled
dusty remains
gather in the fountain’s base.

The only rumble now is passing traffic,
& the shuffle of students steps on
a mud line cut through dying grass,
always rushing five minutes before, or after class in

shields of iPod interference--sound tracked
bubbles--& cell phones stringing invisible
electric laundry lines for all to hear:
(insert cliché here)

The students stacked in trailers
behind Lytle Hall will soon move
to the academic forum; a giant glowing
17 million dollar fishbowl filled with

goldfish eyes in 200 seat amphitheaters,
the teachers
will never have to
learn my name again.

The dry recycled air echoes
recycled ideas pounded into
five paragraph containers
reused in the library, wasted computer printout

pages, all grades
the same--one
pen stroke pass
or fail--like
finding a parking space

five minutes before class.
We are (the new) Penn State
repackaged in another field, in
another ground broken ceremony

high-rise honeycombed dorms,
where a single room is now a triple
in a numbers game of how many students
can we jam in one place, for one price

& still get away with it. Better yet--
put a food court in the forum so
they can buy Freedom fries. Please just
keep the Republicans away from bake sales.

The turned up corn fields give again--
the illusion of space--like
the fairgrounds on a weekend,
& diversity is half the population

taking a bus back to the city,
taking a truck back to the country.
Monday thru Friday we walk in streams but
never pool into a student union,

it’s just myspace now, faux
facebooked friends & waiting
for the season to slide by,
a fountain filled again.

Californ-I-A

"you gotta see the west coast,"
she said. her acrylic nails were
red and the color slunk into the
whites of her eyes. "there just
ain't nothing like the blue sky
in california." a cough hacked
from the cracks in her chapped
red-lined lips. "you gotta see
those people. they got these bright
white teeth and blue convertibles."
"something about it," she said.
"god bless america, you know?"

Maine

Nine hour drive
Hot and heavy June
With no air-conditioning
We drove with the
Mass-holes
to get to you.

for the sake of continuity, this could count as NY

Bozeman

In 2063,
first contact
between humans
& Vulcans will be
made in Montana.

here we IDAGO

Idaho protects black cats
& keeps their Satan worshipers
on a short leash.

LOOK AT ME ALASKA

In New Jersey we live stacked
1,134.4 persons per square mile,
frozen in a block of humanity.

In American Russia, where no
road leads to the capital,
1.1 people per square mile

breath fresh, Alaskan Air.

100th post extravaganza

Amy & Greg visit & illustrate poems.

Ausible Chasm

walls of stacked summer
reading--rocks carved

in the two-million-year
trickle of

blue eyes.


a new paragraph

the tree on the hill drops ¶
that roll down & gather by
my back door.

A yellow bird lives
in the tree & sings

¶ ¶¶ ¶ ¶ ¶

in the morning, the tea
¶ out of the kettle ¶
spilling into autumn
air ¶

changes the weather

¶ ¶¶ ¶¶ ¶

clouds that part at lunchtime.

¶ to open Campbell’s tomato soup

the can crunched & reused into ¶

Colon: Semi Colon’s Straight-laced Brother

Colon has lips that press together so tightly that sometimes he catches himself holding his breath. When he fills his lungs with large, lonely gasps, tears seep from Colon’s eyes, dotting his pages with lists of things that would make him happy. Colon weeps: “Things to do: Remember to breathe, learn to smile, speak in exclamations and expletives, fall in love.”

Time passes for Colon, slowly, because he has many lists and sleeps poorly. His dreams are typed on keyboards, rhythmic heartbeats, and his lists are scratched deeply into his heart. One day, finally, climactically, and gloriously, Colon crosses an item off his list: Colon falls in love.

Her name is Parenthese and she is beautiful and sweet and kind. Parenthese sees Colon first (he doesn’t see her, yet). She likes him right away (but isn’t sure why). When Colon finally notices Parenthese, he’s not sure whether she’s looking at him or the small painting of a dog over his head (he is very dense and Parenthese finds it endearing).

Colon and Parenthese fall in love as soon as Colon realizes that Parenthese is looking at him and not the painting. Together, they spend the day crumbling bread for the ducks in the park and eating fettuccini alfredo cross-legged in Parenthese’s apartment. Over time, Parenthese teaches Colon to relax a little and Colon teaches Parenthese to be a little more organized.

One night Colon and Parenthese have a fight. While they have loved each other for a long time, some issues have been simmering and have finally come to a boil. Colon yells at Parenthese to grow up and stand for something real. Parenthese cries and calls Colon a controlling bastard. Colon sleeps on the couch that night and Parenthese has to pee for nine hours straight because she doesn’t want to walk past Colon to get to the bathroom.

The next morning, Colon and Parenthese walk to the park and feed the ducks together. Each gets a little defensive — Colon scoffs and Parenthese rolls her eyes — but in the end they talk and learn that while they can’t always understand the other, they desperately want to help the other understand as best they can. Parenthese presses Colon’s hand to her lips and thanks him for keeping her grounded. Colon hugs Parenthese tightly and whispers into her hair, thanking her for reminding him of what’s important.

Colon and Parenthese both feel so complete in their love, so full of hope, they decide to have a child. Both agree it’s a little soon, a little unplanned, but Colon and Parenthese believe no child could enter a world filled with more love than the world they have in their hearts to offer.

When the child comes, he is strong and certain like Colon and beautiful and sweet like Parenthese. They name him Comma.


Alternate pop-culture ending: Colon and Parenthese have a child who is everything they could ever want her to be. They name her… : )

debating the usage of a semi-colon;

kitchen sink full
of last weeks dishes;

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa no comments or postings
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa for the blog today;

wet socks &
book bag on back;

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa full of theory, less
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa living during the week;

schedules of movement
without bells ringing;

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa washed face, brushed
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa teeth & walked;

cold feet in conversation,
silence on the turnpike;

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa laundry day is coming.

Inventory 21 Sept.

response

lab assistant, young with the periodical table in
her eyes, readable & open intentions--protons
rotating around the nuclease at
greater & greater speeds--
element stacked upon element,
centrifuged & distilled to a
small electric spasm.

Now whenever she sees the widower scientist,
eyes to the ground.

copy cat copy

a no homework night for no reason at all
(sleep deprivation builds to lack of attention)
though now I sit down--old desk, green walls--
(the ones i can hear Jared’s music through)
& check my email to find a form let down
(hey that was one of your due assignments today!)
letter with an opening salutation,
(Thank you for your submission to Sigma Tau Delta publications.)
followed by the “buffer zone” to keep me reading
(This year we had a record number of submissions, which made the editorial )
on & on, months I forgot I even submitted,
(selection that much more difficult.)
sent my tiny old poems out
(when i still was writing a lot)
& had hope beyond getting through the week
(more than just repeated patterns)

Bad: A Bitter List

sunday night and too much caffeine for no reason at all
(i am full of bad ideas).
jittery and pissed off at a semester of spanish three homework
(someone else's bad idea).
email to ex-boyfriend is returned with unusual curtness
(i assume this means something bad).
friend's new boyfriend is a decade older
(i try not to assume this is bad).
best friend left for a semester in london on saturday
(before my bad (sun)day).
credit card bill is over a thousand dollars
(suddenly i'm a bad spender).
two weeks in and no fingernails left
(another bad habit to break).
want to go to an artists' colony and sleep and sleep and sleep
(no bad dreams).

Subway 8:46 a.m. September 11.

In a tunnel under the Hudson
riding to work, the first impact was
a subtle shake.

A shift of seismic energy
on the Richter scale,
a 2.3 magnitude shudder.

The subway did not stop,
but continue towards the
burning towers.

It rolled, without rushing,
under anchored beams, through the
station, and slid safely

back to New Jersey.



Inspired by the book , American Ground Unbuilding the World Trade Center
by William Langewiesche

how to make paper fly

How to make paper fly.

September, nine million square feet of office space.

Step one: fold the paper in half. It doesn’t have to be any particular size,
just big enough to fold.

Ninety percent air, ten percent building.

Step two: open the paper & fold the left top corner diagonally towards the middle, along the vertical fold made in step one. Repeat with the top right corner.

Two 767 airplanes 137 tons.

Step three: fold the top left corner diagonally towards the middle again along the
vertical fold made earlier. Repeat with the right side.

Two flashes thirty six minutes apart

Step four: fold the mirroring sides into itself along the first horizontally folded line.

Twin ten second pulses, the south tower at 9:59, the north at 10:28.

Step five: make wings by folding an edge along the entire paper from angled nose
to square tail.

it rained office paper all day.

Step six: throw.

september snow globe

Greg likes snow globes.
The way the world encapsulated
in a bubble can slow,
& each plastic flake
falls, glides to the ground,
settled.

I have one of the city—
the Empire State, the Statue
of Liberty & the Twin Towers.
It’s his favorite.
He shakes it up--arms flailing
as a four year old who hasn’t
fully figured how his body works
does--& waits with breath held
for the ten seconds
of falling to be
over.

“The snow never sticks to the towers,”
Greg says. He tells me:
“It’s because they are so tall,
so tall they are part of the sky.”
They are Greg.
They are.

tea time two

This is what the poem tea time eventually became.




thanks again to cherylin.