Poem 131: A Response to Rejection

today i got the ‘no thank you’ letter from my masters program of choice. rather than feeling sad i was happy to have that year finished so i could move on. when i decided to apply i had no idea how far i would be into my art or into my identity as a writer, and now i can say i truly appreciate the experience, and the push to be better. 
A cage cuts the day into edible slices,
Beyond clever vexed lines reclined am I
Safe from uncertainty, worry bee at ease.
The cage, gilded and gaudy, is a humble place
And the simple charm of the unpainted side
Where I reside is not a bird song but a long silence.
With loneliness at the heart of all envy
I took to the sky of eyes and wondered aloud
What mad rapture must be just out of reach.
Wild the mind unkind that pictures this absence.
Not thinking I held my left hand over my beating heart
And unscrewed it from the hinges.
Grey green city dove, thumb beak pinky wings
A bird in the hand slips so quickly through the grates.
When it was long out of site I would wait by the side
Of a cage made of ambition, envision the flight of my hand.
It was infinite there in a whispering wish
The potential to be great became greedy, and I
Felt designed for this purpose of finally escaping.
But I was empty there, a heart wide open with hope,
And I spoke to myself in the dim hours of how lovely
A bird out of hand must be in the wakeful world.
So when it wandered home with your deepest regret
I must admit I was nearly relieved. The waiting aches the most.
The missing pieces of me, the art of my soul, ached.
Knowing the answer is no feels better than choking on hope.
I sent you my latter hand, the one that holds my soul,
And it was not your reply but the stillness,
the hollowed year that fueled the fear–
Now that we are here, with one hand on the cage
I know that the pieces of me I sent away to be seen
And judged and cooked and skinned and soiled
Belong better where they began than in the grand design.
That a bird in the hand is greater still; greater still.


Poem 130

I reorganized the biography section in the library today:

I wrote my autobiography on a match box, and set the thing on fire. I wanted to feel real but not permanate. Wanted to be true but not trapped. Would rather be lost than locked away… So I broke the ropes and swallowed the key…
                                               boxed the lock behind my bones,
                                                                                                   pocket the locket until I forgot it.
                  And now I know what it mean to own my life…
         Own mysef, burn to embers start anew…
Do you?


Poem 129

We stood in a circle and held a hand of a hand of a hand
Where it was quiet. Where there may have been a shout
On the nape of my neck, sharpening the hairs to spindles.
Hush now, hear the linger of a long lapsed shriek.
I am waiting for anyone to speak, to pierce the circle with
A weep, but the silence weighs like a body draped across
Our swinging arms. I am waiting for the frenzy to begin.
I am raking my toes in the dirt. I am tugging the skin on my nails.
I am chewing the tip of my tongue. I will wait for the frenzy to take us.

From within my heart rhythm’s begun.


Poem 128

a mumble for a lovely blood moon
I cull’d a pebble of the earth and put it in my mouth.
And when I pealed my lips to sip the summer down
It was a salty devil dire that pulled the sun petals like a daisy.
Morning noon and noon and night—night morning noon and noon and
Light me this pebble like a flinting stone—tinder box my tongue
Until my words are blue and dangerous, for the both of us.
Whistle out the rings of smoke we spoke and forge the moon to fire.
Spit that stone tword the soil and soak him up this harvest glow
Give back your borrowed heat and meet this engine with my teeth.


Postcard: A Love Note.

Hi friends.

I have not fallen off the face of the earth. I got a job at the local library… and am still at the coffee shop. and am not a real life tutor of english and writing. and if it is not apparent I have trouble turning down jobs and opportunities. So, accept my woeful appologie for being ghostly of late and enjoy this last of five postcards!

Keep writing and we will talk more about editing and squares soon! Much Love!