“If I’m doing this right, then
There should be nowhere for me to hide.”
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
New Poem #17
The next time I am hurt,
Physically, you know,
The next time my skin opens up,
I will look at myself like a planet
I will look at my skin like crust,
And will imagine my organs replaced
By layers of rock, molten.
And I will know myself subject to
All the dangers of being a planet.
Physically, you know,
The next time my skin opens up,
I will look at myself like a planet
I will look at my skin like crust,
And will imagine my organs replaced
By layers of rock, molten.
And I will know myself subject to
All the dangers of being a planet.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
New Poem #16
He dared himself to imagine what could have been
And, reluctantly, accepted the challenge.
It was as if this thing had changed, or that thing,
Or some thing of which he had been unaware.
It felt different, a sweet-sour difference,
It felt somewhat nauseating,
The way people feel, floating upon the ocean,
People who are afraid of the ocean in its immensity.
And, reluctantly, accepted the challenge.
It was as if this thing had changed, or that thing,
Or some thing of which he had been unaware.
It felt different, a sweet-sour difference,
It felt somewhat nauseating,
The way people feel, floating upon the ocean,
People who are afraid of the ocean in its immensity.
New Poem #15 (rhyming!)
I have a memory of you
That makes you look pretty bad
But I’m not sure if it’s true
Or maybe a dream I once had.
That makes you look pretty bad
But I’m not sure if it’s true
Or maybe a dream I once had.
New Poem #14
She was a witch, but she hid it well;
No one would have guessed
The magical properties of the smoke
That rose from her chimney.
No one would have guessed
The magical properties of the smoke
That rose from her chimney.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
New Poem #13
He was waiting for the bus. He looked at his watch. He thought about his grandchildren. There were five of them. Five tendrils spiraling away from his genitals.
Then he died, and they thought about him. They thought about his things. They thought about his small sad home, and his magazines. Secretly, they forgave themselves for being unable to cry.
Then he died, and they thought about him. They thought about his things. They thought about his small sad home, and his magazines. Secretly, they forgave themselves for being unable to cry.
Monday, April 12, 2010
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