Monday, September 19, 2005

I long for another coincidence.

I’m beginning to think you really don’t exist.
You have no last name, and no address
You exist in imaginary memory wit
that fades every time I recall it.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

cat poems


In sunlight your halo shines
Blue eyes realized
white coat divine
a physical ghost in my life.
You put your arms around me
and hang on tight
like a human in fur disguise.


You are green eyes magnified
in furry brown terrific
striped tiger of mine
with one soot black foot
and whiskers so bristle and fine.


There's hint hue of silver blue in you
Although people can seldom tell
You find hair and burrow in there
And at five, you will always still smell
like a brand new mewing kitten.


Grey friend with golden eyes
You are most simply put, my guy
Furry kitten in my hand
who grew up to cat-sized man
14 years of blissful purring life
I insist that you never need die.

on a crowded bus

I remember you
as from long ago
although we've never met.
Verticle bodies
on horizontal poles
a déjà vu of friendship.

Friday, September 09, 2005

free association

Don’t be afraid to be narrative
Don’t be afraid to tell a story with the poem
Tell the whole story
Stop leaving parts out
Stop assuming that the reader will assume
They won’t
I pushed my finger into the desk with it’s broken tip
The agony is numbed by my drunkenness
And apparently, I have a cigarette, already lit
Like a smoker or an addict
How funny that I can be normal all week long and be an addict for one night only
I like to be lonely
I like to be alone
My cell phone serves as a book of numbers that I call from home
I know a weird poetry instructor isn’t original
But I swear he’s like nothing I’ve seen before
And I’ve seen weird
Weird is a stupid word
It differentiates only from normal without specifying anything unique
Nothing that is weird is ever like something else that is weird
How can we categorize them as one?
In Canada they say that poets turn to fiction to make a living.
Firer says that a person equally known for fiction and poetry is rare.
It’s usually one or the other.
Poetry consumes.
And the crazy andy political warhol poet says that to truly write a poem, one must be like Whitman, amongst the grass, with nothing but time and space to think in, and those who live the life of daily drab and jobs and scrambling place to place may try to write poetry on the side, but what is the point?
All of this is emotionalized.
It wasn’t what was said, but what I heard.
What I heard is that if I am a poet, why bother being anything else when I should devote all of my energy to defining my true talent?
I hear my dad in my head, telling me to be somebody, to make a living, and I fear my own ambition in poetry I’m afraid that it will leave me poor and empty.
But with poetry I could never be empty.
I could live on the streets.
I could live on my own energy.
I could live on the mere essence of being me, If only, I could always write poetry
in it’s splendid delightful periphery

Like a fish to water...

I'm back in college, and I feel like I am where I need to be. I know UWM isn't a big school when you consider the whole scheme of huge universities in the world, but to me it always seemed too big, too much to deal with, too overwhelming. Now I find myself wondering why I didn't just go straight to UWM right out of high school. I feel like I am in a real college.

I'm already used to ignoring dimwitted girls with sparkly purses, high heeled shoes, tight fitting jeans and cell phones glued to their ears, back fat hanging out of skin tight tank tops (unashamed, or perhaps, more accurately, unaware), so those people don't really bother me, but in my classes, I am hearing a lot of intelligent people say intelligent things, and I am both surprised and delighted, yet still somehow unintimidated (so far).

The large atmosphere of UWM was criticized by me as an oversight. I had no idea how much anonymity I could find in such a place. Lost in the thousands, I can be myself, because it seems absurd for anyone to single me out in such a scrambling, bustling world.

Sunday, September 04, 2005


The bandage inches up
and drags beneath the scraping wound.

I know the break is healing now
I know it will heal soon

Just come out with me
right now
but don’t look at me
until next week
I don’t want you to see me
so disoriented and messy.