Poem 139

i have been a little overwhelmed lately, but made a moment to jot down a poem. it feels better when spoken aloud:


Numbers are a rhythm and I feel them in my bones

They mean nothing,

they are out of their order

they are hissing like bluecrabs

My boss says I’m no good at this desk job, my boss says pay more attention.

I am all done doting (add) and my mind is elsewhere—we go away

From the white walls and the cold calls when business makes us angry

—It’s just numbers, how can numbers make anyone anything but money—

It’s not just numbers it’s the shore rolling over and over

Hight-tide-noon low-tide5’15.

I am certain the moon does not keep a calendar

I am certain the ocean is without a ledger.

But the numbers always follow

Like a hangover, rolling frothy wide, a thick-glide of algae-weed.

In the evening I try to account hours, work and play—eight trips to the toilet.

I wonder if the toilet keeps a ledger. I don’t do Sudoku in the bathroom anymore:

I could count to 9 and have only 8 numbers—012345679—damn, I’m sure I’m dislexic,

               //I spell it wrong every time//

I find the best solution is to shrug and evoke my gender.

I am allowed to be bad at cars and math, and sometimes at driving.

But I better dress well,

I want to rush into the wade-pool naked—disrupt all the hermits in their conch shells.

I wish food was my only concern and not numbers. I am bad at finances, so I evoke my

Dislexia and tell my father, who has lent me—once again—money that: I am a poet.

Which absolves me of resource, I say, I will be immortal, he says, pay more attention, I say…

Daddy, and lie.


Poem 23 Revised

When it meant something to have an ivy covered house, home

Was the yellow corners of my father’s family album

Worn down with recounting the birth of the youngest, at one a.m.

The death of their smallest, twelve minutes alive,

It was a memoir I hoped to write down in departure

traveling away from here, traveling anywhere


When it meant something to have an ancient surname, my house

held the left hand of my mother, the guiding light held tight

Through rooms I knew from her stories, in houses that belonged

to other people now; would see as we were passing through.

Here is where the chair sat that belonged to your grandmother

My mother was forever with her hand in mine, unwinding our family-lore.


I filed the grooves in my house key down to the gloss,

Lost the scent of my window boxes and potted flowers.

In the towers casting hand shadows in a window haze

In the crooked cobblestone margins where it meant something

To have an ivy covered house home

Is a moving target.


Poem 23 Edited – Poem 23 Original

Poem 55

It has been brought to my attention that people are actually looking at the blog. Thanks guys. I hate blogging as much as you hate reading crappy blogs, so thanks for sticking around… On a more important note there is one person I’m flattered to say printed out my poem and showed it at a very important event that I could not attend… so thank you!! I hope I can meet you someday!!

This one’s for Grammy!!

upon forgetting all salutations, there is this
lacking nothing knowing nothing; i lack and know my heart.
be still flicking match-fingers and well worn toe-less shoes
it was the bruise that lasted eternal not the fall… after all…
we fall in love with the past over and over before we realize
seasons have matured…

cured. of all redemption, the rise

and fall of sunlight is finally free to symbolize nothing but itself.
two score before my parents wed my father held the branches of three
trees: apricot, peach, loquat; their sapping cylinders fresh-leaking of life,
with his knife bore them holes together, and bound them with left-over string.

they grew entangled, like the knots of unkept ambition, their fruition
was never compromised by their scars. Here we are. Walking around
like we might be some fallen trees, but you and i know the best part about
broken branches: they must grow back.

Poem 55 Revised Poem 55 Edited