Remember reading Egyptian love poems
That read like Romantic complaints
And Greek letters to family friends
that were reminiscences
about good old days
Two monsters I’ve met
the various beasts of nature
given razor teeth and claws, red hair
the fearful symmetry that made the lamb
Monster in name by those afraid of them
And then Monsters in polos,
monsters creeping with wormy smiles and bleached teeth
even quiet looks and jeans are creeping with secret abuses
and so, yes
The world was made for monsters,
the monsters who are the fungus in the veins
of the beasts that eat the lambs,
the monsters that twist the limbs and lambs and hearts
and leave marks on nature and pervert
that the world was made for hidden monsters is true
And so heaven help the tiger
In all the struggles I have had with writing, my biggest complaint is that I am not allowed to see where I am going, so to speak. The seven words that make up the title of this blog provided a sort of catharsis and a poem was born. It is a sister and a part two to Writing the Plot: When What You Want Doesn’t Matter, so I would recommend reading it if you feel a little lost (don’t feel bad, I always do).
“Realize that your inner sight is blind”
and paint it black
like your memory
Inspiration is sitting on a mushroom eating apples
and looking at you with white fogged eyes
“I will never give you stories if you use your eyes to see
and with me, no eye is welcomed.
All the dark you can find is mine
and I will give you what you need.
Let’s begin with what can you hear
now that you know you cannot see.”
The moral of this story? Maybe one day I will learn not to argue.
What I’m Thinking When My Mother Reads Aloud An Article About Sherlock Getting a Special:
An Extemporaneous Poem
“They said they would make an announcement
again at 2:21 today”
And I took in the information,
and in my head formed the vague impression
that 2:21 must have meant something.
I was thinking how it was oddly specific….
like they were giving us a code…
And just as I looked at her
thinking “I should be taking notes”
Our eyes met
And her silent belief that I already knew
Let me in on the joke
And I managed to say “Oh!”
a second after she dipped her head in disgust and said
The singer sha na na’s his way through a neo new wave jam
and I waltz
across the floor to his music
hearing his words:
“we’re young hearts,
look at us go,
all we really need is a stereo.”
it’s hit a bitter chord with me.
These are words I could believe
when the world didn’t push back,
when the summer breeze flowed through the open car windows
and through my lungs
like water through a silver sieve
and I could dream unfettered.
We’re young hearts
All we need is a stereo.
He says it again
and I shake my head.
I don’t know,
I think all I need is a battering ram
to make me what I think I am.
“And there I sat, long
long ago, waiting for the
world to know me.”
And I have seen where you sat, Mr. Hawthorne. I have crept a staircase that wasn’t there when you visited Ms. Ingersoll.
Your things are the closest I’ve come to the hero, Mr. Hawthorne, and it’s one mecca
I hadn’t expected.
Art Nouveau architecture
pours directly out of my nightmares
I climb the curving, white Nouveau staircase
up through a heavenly hell
of swirls and arches bathed in light
Not wanting to touch the vining bannister for fear it’s poisonous
It all seems like something that shouldn’t have been
And shouldn’t be
A solidified fantasy
A fairy world
A sideways universe that possessed the minds of artists
and sickened by it all
Art has its limit-
Or perhaps I do-
And I draw the line at living in something
Only meant to be seen out of the corner of the eye
It’s a step too far
Making reality out of dreams