one hundred poems

12. until the day it stops

at the
horizon of something new
first breath
~~door~~
~~sunrise~~
~~shoreline~~
~~beginning~~
end

a haze at eight, indescribable
yellow of sundown filtered through a humid halfblue grey
and again my state of mind is mirrored in the sky,
this empty state still strange, so odd to be
anything at all, this reflection like a looking glass

10. of being

Poems pulse inside my eyes,
bewildering my sense of sight, but I—
I use them to light pitchdark passageways
through which I wander every day,
like a dream
like a bad dream in which
I am shot, six times, by a man who is my lover
and I do not die.
I hold my poemcandle out in front of me
in waking life, where everyone else seems fine;
they don’t need drugs or crutches, they sail by
on energies unknown to me, everyone
okay without outpatient treatment,
everyone except me pretends to be okay
more successfully; I face my demons
in my dreams
in my dreams in which
I’m walking from room to room in houses
I could draw for you, their floorplans
traversed subconsciously—
in my dreams I’m both waking and sleeping,
and I’m always checking for something,
so aware of my surroundings, looking
out windows, pulling at sheets,
listening to my heart beat
while I wait with bated breath for something
that is neither there nor arriving;
in waking life, I pace the same persistent
neuroses

5.21.2012

9. untitled

catching truth in small
handfuls, swallowing
the ego, disbelieving
everything

2 notes

8. the split

a hollow noise, like the drumming
of fingertips on piano keys
across a crowded room:
the split between
who I am today
and who I will be
comes to me like
the notes of crescendo

5.13.12

7. like a knife

I write letters to a friend,
make mixed cds,
stir in my own quiet company
and rest with the memory
of being so alone
for the first time: I took a knife
to my wrists, I found it
helpful at the time.
Quitting loneliness
is a battle, waged
with the ammunition
of weed and coffee,
two-mile runs,
leftovers in the fridge,
a plan to get home.
I paint my nails one day,
remove the polish the next.

5.13.2012

6. approaching (a haiku set)

summer approaches,
her hands warm with memories,
her eyes bright with sun.

time is spent dreaming:
the cost, a quarter of your
attention, your eyes

focused on the air
you breathe, a meditation
on presence and hope.

5.9.2012

5. reflection on the process

A goal is set: a nice round number
and I am challenging myself to create
a thing where there was not that thing before:
a poem
like a voice in a quiet room, carrying
to the corners as an inflected hum
no matter how secret.

4. april showers

April showers us in questions
the slow kisses of a sweet girl
I hardly know; I catch
raindrops on eyelashes,
wish for a minute for someone
to hold me through a thunderstorm
and remember that we are
our thoughts — I am
a tired commotion of plans
and fantasies for a better future,
I am a sleepy, hollow shell
since she left me, the girl I gave
my heart to years ago.
Let May be better.
Let yourself go — forgive
yourself the yearning
for a deeper pain than this,
forgive her cruelty and
forgive the stranger’s kiss.
Pretend you do not miss her
until you do not miss her.
Let June’s gloom lower
your eyelids to no longer
see her in your memory.
Push forward through history
and write pages of something new,
a story in which she is not
the villain — only a city
from which the hero travels
far away — into adventure
in search of long-buried treasure

4.30.12

3. vice

in her room, a half-full glass of red wine,
a pipe,
a bag of chocolates,
a box of oreos.

alone, she pulls silence around her
like a blanket.

how to feel safe, she thinks.
how to guard against the hurt
of relationships, she hides
away in a candle-lit cave

writing poems in the light
of flickering flame

5.5.12