Ouverture

I will point you to it. Only it can’t be so welcoming at times wading through that which isn’t for that. We sent for our brethren to beat back to come to and yes I have been planting my fist into the muck for some time now. Divisions like this are just so hampered with why exhaust the acrylics when the oil is underfoot. The larvae inch caped in corner thoughts caked in the sweat glands of my thumbnails.

Falling on the backs of letters scrunching wince eyelids machinated machines more or less come through these eyeballs and probably other pressed tears and garnished prayers. To point you to the letters like seltzer slenderizing a rock.

April 2009

[due to my embarrassing absence regarding this blog and otherwise, a poem pulled from the semester.]

A THREE WEEK PERIOD

She said The first time you go to therapy is like the first time you have sex
It's looking at each other and thinking
if we do this every week will it get
better?

She was secretly a big woman
you could only tell in off moments
like say she looked out the window
and suddenly all this size

She had a video camera and wanted to use it on me
I said no
It was from 1998, maybe, on a tripod at eye level right next to her head
Staring and
I wanted to say lady, think about it
you know
Get your brain in the game

I was alone
the other day
in the park eating a very simple
well made sandwich
prosciutto mozarella olive oil vinegar and really good bread
and next to me was an older gentleman maybe 50
also alone
and I asked him excuse me? what's your name?
and he said what?
and I said sorry. excuse me. what's your name?
and he said
Mr. Hart
and I said oh I'm sorry I thought you were someone else
when the truth is I didn't think he was someone else
I knew he was Mr. Hart the whole time

I'm beginning to understand the computer bars in Chinatown
Young men playing World of Warcraft all day
nonsensical slogans emblazoned across their chests and
greasy boxed noodles
in easy reach

Forget what they tell you
your time isn't precious at all.

350-Superduty...a poem by madisen

 

 

350-Superduty

 

This afternoon it had taken Lewis

an hour to drive home,

on account of the rain            the wind

and the lightning,

he explained to his wife.

 

When the sirens voiced their opinion

on the matter of cold and warm air’s

rapid, blue-eyed affair, crying

out for what felt like forever

Lewis proudly mentioned that the

pillows, the mattress

they was already there,

in the bathroom

next to the bathtub

waiting to comfort and protect

the couple

from the impending tornado.

 

This was all very true

and it was all very nice, considerate even

but his ol’ girl still ran screaming—

with paucity of reason, she panted

tracing out weather patterns

on the ceiling of their

trailer

opening and closing windows

screaming that the bathroom

did not have a bathtub after all

and for the last goddamn-time

a mobile home

is not a house.

 

Lewis, asleep already,

surrendering to some milky half-dream

about women he knew in high school,

in his dream, girls he knew in high school,

and about the beautiful house that he

and his high school sweetheart shared, just how

great it looked when it was wet,

the metal really sparkled something nice

in the rain.

So  lost, so enveloped was he

that when

the glass, the trailer itself

imploded

he thought it only thunder

and pulled another wet pillow

over his head.