Nine Poems
(I am not someone who has ever thought to write a poem, but a few days ago I felt like it. Then it happened again 8 more times).
Take me to the desert yesterday.
I want to be drowning in a blonde dusty heat.
I want to be good as gone.
The sun will fall on my head in one fell swoop,
while heat melts up from below.
That’s why toothless men always say,
“It is hot as hell.”
What really matters are these rocks you held in your hands,
which matched our eyes.
And the only reason the golden gate is red,
is so we can see it.
(so we won’t crash)
If those rocks weren’t there,
and we didn’t have eyes,
and if the bridge wasn’t red
It could be worse… and there wouldn’t be much to see.
The dandelions were bald.
And I spent so many eyelashes,
pennies in fountains,
and 11:11 o’clocks,
hoping you got what you wished for.
Just remember to forget me when you are famous.
We were just playing an earnest game of pass,
But then the candle fell and the votive cracked.
There was no rug to sweep ourselves under,
so we counted the shards in the corner.
Saturday night turned inside out while Sunday unfolded itself,
slowly, but surely.
Maybe it’s a symptom of being from the East Coast.
Or thinking about how there are matchboxes and matchbooks and matches made in heaven
that haven’t even been struck to death yet.
Shoddy workmanship backfires.
A bad month to follow,
but big things come wrapped in gold.
And you assume the position.
Here is all this what’s gonna happen,
and a whole bunch of forgetting what already happened…
I don’t know whether to say you are welcome or thanks a lot.
I wish there was a word that meant both.
He spoke in redundancies.
Saying things like,
“He is forgetful. He forgets a lot.”
“It is small enough to be a carry on, so I carried it on with me.”
Then he walked away and I kept trying to say things twice over like he did.
It wasn’t so easy, because it was a little difficult.
Sometimes I miss the sunburnt palm trees,
or being reminded that every Dingbat has a star.
I miss the two story sky and flat conversations,
while mountain lions hid in concrete garages.
But then I remember the things that never happened,
while the jacaranda blossoms melted on the pavement.
(And how the ocean was a million miles away).
