Monthly Archives: August 2013

The Rules for Growth

Simple times, then. A friendship sealed
over a traded lunch item, validated further
when the teacher made certain not to seat
the two of you together. Because the bond
is a distraction; it keeps you from learning
rules, process, structure. Eyes on your paper.
Betrayal hits a small body hard, an unbalanced
force: failure to save a seat. You get bigger,
taller, and the rules are changing faster than
you can keep up with them. And the classroom
now has become nothing short of a minefield.
There is nowhere to step that doesn’t yield
explosive paroxysms of laughter at your expense.
That’s when the rule is to create your own rules.

Citrus

Citrus is the word
For plants that flower
Oranges, Lemons
Grapefruits, Limes

Cultivated
Since ancient times
Tangerines are in there
Somewhere

Evergreen shrubs
With spiny shoots
Their fruit covered
In a zesty leather

Do they make
Lemon couches?
Spur heeled boots
Of orange peels?

These coastal growers
Fight scurvy
The little-known
Buddha’s hand stretches
In pell-mell clusters
Like squid tentacles

Piling goodness
In autumn shade
Peel a seedless
Clementine, a
Complex aroma
To enjoy.

Applesauce

I don’t want to write a poem today.
I am tired and my eyes hurt and I’m
cranky and I’m not feeling creative
at the moment and I’m sure it will pass
and I’ll be fine and don’t worry about
a thing and every little thing is
gonna be Bob Marley and I’ll get back
into the groove tomorrow I don’t doubt
and the world won’t end and it’ll keep on
spinning and keeping on and every
other possible analogy that
I can think of but I’ll think of them all
tomorrow and not today because I
just don’t want to write a poem today.

Sweet Dreams

She pushed the covers down from around her throat and turned to him. “It was a bad dream I couldn’t wake up from,” she said.

“Then go back to sleep,” he said.

Malocclusion

Circumstances, finances,
and just plain
stubbornness
kept me with a mouth
full of
teeth resembling tombstones in an old cemetery,
one rotated incisor jutting
so far up
into my mouth
as to
make me look half-wolfish.

What’s wrong with your TEETH?
a small niece asks of me,
herself surrounded by
perfect,
even
smiles…the birthright of the suburban teenager.

There’s nothing wrong with them, I tell her.
They’re simply not straight.

I take a kind of
perverse pride
in my jagged
countenance – my way of saying,
“Fuck you. This is MY beauty.”

In Japan, they call it yaeba,
and women pay the equivalent
of thousands of dollars
to look as I do –
crooked,
irregular, with a smile
that takes adjusting to.

One Day

One day
When you stand still
Long enough

The world takes form
The buzz of conversation
The feet stomping in time

It all
Just goes
Quiet

For a heartbeat
And the souls
Of the ones before you

Those eyes
That peer back
To yours

They speak
With the voices
Of angels

Oh angel
Before me
Adore me

Their eyes
Seem to speak
Behold me

And hold me
I am lost
And found

In
The magic
Of your stare.

Minute Rice

I guess minute quinoa, actually.
I don’t know how many syllables that
words is, so don’t bother sifting through the
lines in hopes of finding some deep-seated
secret message in this particular
piece. I forgot what I wanted to write
about, fuck. Now I’ll spend the rest of the
poem stalling until I ultimately
recall what this scribbling was all for.
If I really wanted to be a douche—
I do—I’d wait until the absolute
last line to unveil some meaningless phrase
or word, something absurd, like mittens, or
minute rice, pretend it was so artsy.