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someone to come home again [revised]

Days are getting so much shorter. I promised you I'd write you a poem tomorrow, but what if all I can think about is the novelty of goodbye's brittleness and bitterness, the colors of dried leaves as they scuttle across the ground and are gone overnight, now rolling, now drifting, blow, blow, blustering, blowing away, undaunted in the great frantic frenzy of the future's breathless heaving wintercheekflushed excitement-- and then it's you or I who is alone staring at the unchalked sidewalk, waiting for

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(A) Hey, guys! So like a million years ago, I wrote two poems entitled "Melody for Springtime," and I recently wrote a third one! This one is more spoken-word, and I performed it for my phone because poems over the phone are the coolest. Since the first two Melodies debuted on this blog, I figured it would only be fitting to post the third one.

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A is also doing a poem per day challenge for April! Just like old times! Follow him thither!

I have moments of attempting to pass for a real person like a camel through the eye of a needle. I am a beast. I do not thread. I think a lot about unraveling how the ties that bind will come to undo us, the hands that hit with the hammer’s fist will pry with its teeth, its two claws. It...

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(C) is doing a thirty-day poetry bonanza for NatPoeMo! Follow him!

Also, (E) is doing beauitful poems for Lent! Follow her!

"Abortion is Genocide" on Campus, Today (1/30)

Tottering above your brightred- -backpack. Grinning you are dwarfed in a swarm of student-

-protest. Studied protest. You, wearing your smile, an excuse and explanation for accused genocide. Smiling sun-beam among a dust-cloud of locusts. Tottering,

standing—defiant. 

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People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave. A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master…

Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love (via observando)

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C-Sestina for Arachne

Set like clockwork toys to run, we made a mess of weather-beaten footsteps whose interlocking paths wove two terrible tarnished tapestries. You were always rushing somewhere to get something somehow more important

than threads were once the most “important”. We used to be threaded. Used to run and rove with cries erupting from our porcelain lips. To collapse in fields was heavenly. To count the footsteps of your other lovers. Those traceless former tapestries always gripped me with a tight-bound jealousy. Weave 

me into something worthwhile. Weave a shard of jewelry, there. Between us. How important that you should be a goddess-taunting tapestry? A braggart with the talent to back it. Haven’t spiders always run at the sight of you? Haven’t monstrous footsteps echoed away into forgiving darkness because you told them to?

Tell me again how you used to swoon at the sight of silk. And I think you must be woven out of the very gold you weave. I swoon at the sound of your footsteps. How they pad tenderly down the corridors. Each. Beat. Im-por-tant. Because it brings you closer. Athena urges you to run, yet resist, unless it’s to my arms. I am torn tapestry. 

Travesty of travesties when she tugs your tapestries off the wall. The goddess in you alive enough to bend you into submission. Now your loom’s running frightful images into our silk. Each stitch you weave inflames her. You always missed what was most important. Never missed the silk in my retreating footsteps. 

Now become a spider that shies away from me. My giants’ footsteps could break your titanium tapestry with one light step. How power corrupts! I never wished to be so important. Now our clocks are overworked, their work gone, too. Will you weave us a meager ending to this tale? Or at least run 

out the time of our tapestries? At least run, sprint, struggle, with your few remaining footsteps. Weave us into sky-arching giants. The greedy gods will flee because you told them to.

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Refrigerator Magnet poetry, part 3. (A)

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Refrigerator Magnet poetry, continued.

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Refrigerator Magnet Poetry, yo. (A)

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love is more thicker than forget more thinner than recall more seldom than a wave is wet more frequent than to fail it is most mad and moonly and less it shall unbe than all the sea which only is deeper than the sea love is less always than to win less never than alive less bigger than the least begin less littler than forgive it is most sane and sunly and more it cannot die than all the sky which only is higher than the sky

e.e. cummings, "[love is more thicker than forget]"

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via the Poetry Foundation

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C-Soulmates

Funny that the man whose name sprouted "platonic" has such a golden ideal of love.

I hear his words caterwauling against my skull whenever my heart skips a beat you see we were made with four arms four legs one head and two faces our hearts beating in codependent unison we were immortal in our convalescent coalition until Jove heft his bolts and cleft us in twain had us sewn up without our other halves until we were just dandelion seeds on the wind, blown, scattered, strewn, in our pain

So when my eyes alight on your eyes and I know that they are squinched with a smile and a thought of our redolent reminiscences I think I see a resemblance there to my own soul or should I say our soul?

And I know that we are not quite magnetic enough to be two halves of an ecstatic whole two continental plates drifting together and not apart but without those distinctive interlocking landmasses like 1:10000 scale puzzle pieces wrinkled by charging seas but you darling (today alight with a laugh meant not for me but falling upon my ears in delight regardless) remind me for a few stolen moments of the same capricious kisses that must drift from the lips (across vast unspecified distances)

of the other half of my soul

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A #15 - blanking out

blanking out under blankets

in the broken night with jagged edges

i am remembering the last drops of your

emotions as you bid me

farewell? good morning? i dont know. there is a faint

sadness to all of this and i am terrified of it

existing and knowing about it sometimes i would choose

blissiful ignorance over the impossibility of real feeling

and that it what is rending me to pieces come

back so i can hold you properly this time when i know

that is something i have to do i am awake and remembering

and it hurts so i sleep and can we cling to the bed together

our boat in the buffetting night and we can maybe hold

each other too for a while at least until we feel less desperate

and at least until we feel less anxious about the

encroaching of age and the uncertainty of time--

or perhaps the certainty as it plods so steadily on

and we want moments to be irregular up and down up

and we don't want the surety that we will fade away

that we will slowly slowly blank out

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—Is where space ends called death or infinity? Pablo Neruda, The Book of Questions A mere eyelid’s distance between you and me. It took us a long time to discover the number zero. John’s brother is afraid to go outside. He claims he knows the meaning of zero. I want to kiss you. A mathematician once told me you can add infinity to infinity. There is a zero vector, which starts and ends at the same place, its force and movement impossible to record with rays or maps or words. It intersects yet runs parallel with all others. A young man I know wants me to prove the zero vector exists. I tell him I can’t, but nothing in my world makes sense without it.

Amy Uyematsu, The Meaning of Zero:A Love Poem  (via yesyes)

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My house disgusted me, so I slept in a tent. My tent disgusted me, so I slept in the grass. The grass disgusted me, so I slept in my body, which I strung like a hammock from two ropes. My body disgusted me, so I carved myself out of it. My use of knives disgusted me because it was an act of violence. My weakness disgusted me because “Hannah” means “hammer.” The meaning of my name disgusted me because I’d rather be known as beautiful. My vanity disgusted me because I am a scholar. My scholarship disgusted me because knowledge is empty. My emptiness disgusted me because I wanted to be whole. My wholeness would have disgusted me because to be whole is to be smug. Still, I tried to understand wholeness as the inclusiveness of all activities: I walked out into the yard, trying to vomit and drink milk simultaneously. I tried to sleep while smoking a cigar. I have enough regrets to crack all the plumbing. I’m whole only in that I’ve built my person from every thought I’ve ever loved.

Leisure, Hannah, Does Not Agree with You (2) by Hannah Gamble

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One time my sister and I

colored our closet doors with crayons.

It didn’t cover well, the wax

shavings clumped up in parts,

purples stopped looking like purples. More

like drops of dye in a glass of water.

After we scribbled as far up as

we could reach on both doors,

we went  back outside and rode our bikes

around the cul-de-sac.

When Mom found out, she said

Dad was gonna hit the roof. I remember

imagining my dad turning into a rocketship

and plowing through the ceiling like

some sort of excavation drill, gleaming

through sawdust and insulation and me

being able to see the sky from the hole he left.

I was mostly afraid bugs would crawl in.

But Dad didn’t hit the roof.

He didn’t plow through it.

I think Mom was mad, mad that he wasn’t,

and she told us

that some parents beat up their own kids

for putting a hanger up the wrong way.