I am over you now.
It was dark.
Category Archives: Arts, Poetry and Music
I do not claim to have developed an airtight business plan
for this dream.
It was a dream, and it came from my root
although up in the air, before you, it has proved to be so fragile.
It wanted nourishment, encouragement,
A chance to live and grow.
I see now I should be thankful for those strong blasts of hot air,
If they have strengthened stems,
the lack of light, at first, that made it reach higher,
and your shit, that turned out to be
rather rich after all.
Just get there, she said.
Any adequate means of transportation will do.
The wind might blow though the windshield, bugs splatter,
and wheels rattle,
you might have to swerve to miss a deer,
then run over a possum.
But if you get there,
You can have the picnic.
Take out the platitudes, piled high,
Say, it was all meant to be,
Footsteps in the sand.
Or, was it pedal to the metal
and three sheets to the wind?
That’s why I called her,
To pre-empt her from texting me with the usual
“What’s wrong with you people?
You don’t live on twenty acres!”
I said to her, “Pam, would you pah-lease
get those crows to cut out that racket at seven in the morning?
and your cyprus is shedding all over our pergola.
What do you think this is, a public park?”
You’re the 70% cocoa of us
He’s the Kraft Dinner
But I? I’m the pickled beans.
I drank another glass of that tangy, sparkly, just a little sweet, juice,
which was defrosted, bottled, pressed from apples and aronia–September and October,
Couldn’t get enough, though my gut ached, unaccustomed to filling up
After going all day on nothing but coffee, tomato soup, and roasted almonds.
Barely time to pee between classes.
I sip again, then, hands to the keyboard, keyboard on my lap,
lap on bed, shoulders propped by pillows
against the headboard.
It snowed today, five inches or more in early November.
A wet, cold, day, windy like home, except without the smell of the bay
and red sandy loam tuning the snow pink in the ruts.
This morning two of my fingers turned dead white and tingled
even inside my wool gloves, and I shifted my weight
off surfaces irritated due to the failure of certain inner hammocks.
I don’t like you any more.
It’s not your fault–it could have been anyone,
present at the failure of certain other inner hammocks
like the one held up at one end (I tied it there)
I meant to look up just a few words for a poem about a geologist friend, but the language was so rich, I couldn’t resist.
We are absolutely dating, he said
As they glided across the abyssal plain.
In the aftershock if that, she
turned on her earphones to an acid rock channel
an aggregate album recommended by Amber.
It’s your angular unconformity I object to,
he continued, and your acting
as if all of us, your Achaean companions,
are just an archipelago about you.
It was a basic, bedrock complaint,
and she buckled a little, inside, like
some kind of breadcrust bomb.
She cast about, cleaved clean from her continental crust.
She was shaken to the core,
He could be so crude.
Don’t think I mean to degrade you, he continued
as he prepared to drill to her core.
It seemed an eon (it was erratic at her epicenter)
Then the erosion began.
The exfoliation of one layer, another,
she fractured, froze,
Her guts as if gastroliths ground them.
In the half-life it could have taken for her heart
to turn to hardpan, something creaked,
a hinge line opened to something inside
a hotspring, an isotope of her essence till now hidden
A kettle, steam kinking upward within,
Then, lava, a liquefaction of the lowland of her soul
Mantle, oozing massive, moving toward
a sudden metamorphosis
Mica, he wanted to mold her
but her orogenic beginnings were leading to a piercing point.
It was plutonic, yes, but now, what a
pneumatolytic, pyroclastic rift!