In case you’re still listening

I wrote poem 93 last night.

A small feat in the wake of Shakespeare’s impressive line of sonnets, or the hidden droves of Emily Dickinson snippets. I am no Walt Whitman nor will ever be Ezra Pound. But 100 poems in a couple years is noteworthy in the very least. Or not. How many of me are out there… typing furiously on their PCs and MACs. The fingertip friction alone would be enough to start several small fires in the dry-er parts of this desert.

Sadly there are too many poets just typing… and me among them. And what are they out to prove? if anything… what a loss to our generation, these typing tinker toy soldiers.

I realized, after turning in my thesis and making some academic triumph, quickly followed by a dance or two, that this blog is just like every other blog. So let’s change that.

When I hit my 100th poem, (which should be soon if I can get my ass in gear), I will go back and edit every poem here. Not for the sake of a better poem, but for the sake of a better poet. After almost a dozen classes in poems, poets and poetry writing, my best work is in the middle stages. Sure, a good poem is worth crossing the ocean with just floaties. But being a good editor of your own work is better than being the shark in that water, with the poor sucker and his floaties.

So, if there’s anyone out there to read a word of this dribble… you’ll get something a little better than my half cocked, typo ridden epiphanies… and I’ll even do them in color! What do you say!

I’ll start with Poem 1. Edit them as they’ve been edited later for projects etc. Then after doing that for all 100, I’ll go back and edit again, being as harsh as I can be. The world is not made of people just like your mother. My boyfriend may like this junk but a critic won’t be so sentimental. I may not believe in the sharp teeth of PFFA, but I do believe in a harsh inner eye.

Hope this works out. Seven poems to go until then. Wish me luck!

Poem 94

for b 

we are most ourselves in the skinny hours before eight fifteen.
you sometimes don’t bother stirring.
for me a shower and curl of mascara will do. 
sometimes i close the door 
try on every blouse i own, 
pour myself into dresses and slacks
sweet talk stubborn zippers to satisfy
some need to be seventeen and slender again.
you wait patiently, picking gravel from the teeth of your shoes.
nothing particular on your mind
no work, no coffee, no clients to disappoint
just the WOOOOOSH of the bathroom door
and there i am; and here you are. 
you sucking the air between your teeth
the door tucked closed behind me
nevermind the displaced garments. the rejects of this mourning’s plunder. 
here i am, there you are, sucking the air through your teeth
content to know now, not seventeen, or eighteen, or twenty two. 
now; here we are; nice to meet you.