Retinal Detachment.

Where have we gone.

Lost somewhere between mouse holes

and tunnels to China.

We are drawing our maps as we go.

Each attempt, we reverse North and East.

Then East and South.

Contour lines take the shape of our finger prints.

How

did we even get here.

.

As monsters lurk past,

We cling to damp, chipped walls

With carvings and murals from vagrants.

The markings stain our clothes.

They are fresh and new.

Specters must be tagging the walls as we speak.

Always a step ahead of us but

They leave no clues,

only mock our misdirection.

We are never quite found.

.

At least

We have

Each other

To get lost in our ora serratas.

Easily detached

From wherever we are.

For however long.

.

At least

We have

Each other

To lie to one another

To see fake sunlight together

To assure that somehow

We will find what we’re looking for.

One Two; One Two

I don’t want to inhale you like low hanging incense,

That everyone else uses

To fill their rooms,

But rather,

I want to

Wrap myself around your vocal chords

And make you say my name.

Not just say it but

Whisper it, one

Syllable at a time.

Each time you’d

Stick each letter like a magnet to a fridge

On my ear drum

And rearrange the letters on your tongue

To make my name sound different -

Each time you say it

It would sound like a song

Or a beat

Or some sort of catchy cadence that only performers use.

Because each time you say it,

Baby, it will be like hearing for the first time

Out of anyone’s mouth.

So much so that

I won’t even know it’s my name.

But I can’t make

You say my name.

I’ll have to take my exit through your throat and

Squeeze it for the last time

Before hanging on your uvula for dear life,

Take a nose-dive off your teeth in hopes that

Maybe they’ll find their way to my lobes.

And maybe if I’m lucky

Nibble my name in Morse code.

Lay it to sleep in a wool blanket

So it can revolve on a static repeat.

Stage 4

I haven’t grown out of thinking that

One day when I climb her stairs,

Turn the corner and walk into the kitchen,

That she’ll be there with her back to me.

Stirring a pot of rice and lentils,

Baking chicken in the oven,

Marinating carrots in orange juice.

I am still

Waiting for this.

This childish wonderment of a possibility

That maybe she’s just in another room.

Maybe she’s just setting the table or watching the news

Or ironing clothes in the basement.

Instead of in a corner cemetery plot under a tree.

She still has enough ingredients in her pantry

To feed the whole family.

Instead, I am still sitting in front of

Bowls and bowls of nine years worth of guilt

Stuffing my face daily.

I take pictures in her mirrors

Hoping she will show up in the proofs,

Her hand on my shoulder

With that accepting smirk.

Telling me that I’ve made her proud,

And that I can put my bowls in the sink,

And even use the good dish towels

The ones brought out for Christmas.

Wasteful.

Said post is under construction.

Six Years.

When I die,

Please wait six years

Before telling anyone.

I’ll be following the trucks

That leave slithering trails of halite

All along the low road.

Dodging carcasses.

Taking naps in pot holes.

Tapping on stained glass ceilings,

Drawing pictures in breathy condensation.

Placing palms

Against foot prints

And shivering.

Looking up at high roads

Being swallowed by clocks.

Hoping the minutes that pass by

Are the same sixty seconds

I used to feel.

But these trucks don’t stop for wondering.

Each step I neglect,

Is an extra mile I lose.

Never once questioning my course,

If it will ever lead me back home.

Matchstick House

I lived in a matchstick house

Where the sun was always setting.

And when the orange gradient would hug the ground,

My house became engulfed in flames.

 

Each phosphorous head would spark

And whisper a crackle.

Each fleck of ash swept away

In a storm of flurries.

My skylights gray,

My rooms smogged.

 

And I would sit there,

Peaking through splotched windows.

Watching as the outside

Turned into a valley of fireworks.

The spurts of colors screaming

For the grass to eat the sun.

 

I lived in a matchstick house

Where my lungs were charred.

And each time the orange gradient

Hugged the ground,

My whole world

Became a celebration.

Through Fort Windows.

This is a combination of many short poems I’ve written. I broke them apart, reworked them. I also thought it might be fitting to have the first poem be relevant to the title of this blog.

So this is week one. Here we go.

He side steps through dunes

Letting them glide between his toes.

He wept.

Laid near the sand and

Tossed his way to the sea.

Dodging sea shells by the sea shore

Doing hand stands on coral reefs.

He stands

At the tip of the jetty

Soaked

Waiting for tidal waves to come crashing.

Splaying his arms and wincing his eyes

As the salty clouds blow about him,

Wrapped their arms twice around the earth

And still had room

For him too.

Ha has stood in vast fields

and watched meteor showers.

But these clouds

Were huge.

And they loomed

Over the dunes in

Such a way

That made him feel pitiful.

And through a break in the atmosphere

He saw someone

Sleeping in maunsell sea forts

And the sun rise through their window

From across the world,

As his was just sinking.

He prays that at some point,

He would toss

And turn simultaneously

And maybe even dream with them too.

An Earnest Request To My Subconscious.

As I stated in my last entry, I kept a 365 project a few years ago which forced me to write for over 200 days in a row.  The work was sloppy, yes the exercise produced some interesting pieces I never would have written.  I am struggling with whatever project this might be for me.  I refuse to write every day, or I might never write again (that’s not true, but I haven’t written since my 365).  An entry a month seems to far in between, that I’d blow it off.

Every week perhaps?

The thing is I need an idea before I start writing. That seems like a normal thing to say, but I often start pieces without having any direction.  Just yesterday I started this killer poem with 2 lines and had nowhere to go.

So, 52 poems.  Do I have that many things to write about anymore? Poetry, even.

Enough with the questions. I am fully willing to take suggestions via twitter or from comments left on entries.  These can be topic ideas or poets I should read.

From dreams blogs may come.

I don’t know if I dream like everyone else.  Within one night of sleeping, the story is never the same.  Sometimes the characters are, but not always.  Suddenly, we will be in a new environment, as if the previous scene never happened.  And I’m the only one that knows what’s happened.  And I never understand why no one can keep up.  It’s like talking to an alcoholic the next morning.  Very frustrating.

Last night I dreamt about writing and performing.  Maybe it’s my guilt manifesting from not writing in over a year.  One scene from my dream was set in a retirement home.  The walls were bright yellow.  A girl sat in a chair, reciting a poem.  This was a girl from one of my high schools that I particularly disliked.  The poem was as follows:

Action…
Nelson,
It’s happening all over again.
[lines I forgot]
It’s still haunting.

In the dream, I remember it being powerful and I hated it.  But I started to analyze it anyway.  This is the only time that I have ever actually willed myself awake in order to recall the poem.  Clearly, I’ve forgotten the middle bit.  It was about her father or grandfather losing his memory.

I can’t figure out why this particular girl had to recite this dream-poem to me.  Maybe it was a reminder that I can do … it.  I can write if I let myself.  If I give myself a platform.

So here we are, tryna soak up the sea.  An impossible feat, so say the West Indians.  But damned if we not gon’ try.