Monthly Archives: August 2015

Most inventive break up (#300)

Note left on my laptop by my ex-girlfriend:

You have been logged off
Due to inactivity

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Posted by on August 14, 2015 in new poetry


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On a torn note found in a high school bathroom (#299)

breathe–23 hrs
cry–1 hr

a litany for survival
for a species who thinks
she is endangered

a corner
ripped from a spiral notebook
(math? history?)
crumpled philosophy of adolescence

this is what she has been taught
that there is a space to cry
but that tears must be contained

this might have been slipped under
a shared stall divider
hearing and understanding
choosing to pass survival tips to another in danger
who then left it behind for the next girl

maybe it was just a reminder to herself
of the ratio of sadness
she can handle

later in life
she may find it difficult
to cry that long

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Posted by on August 14, 2015 in new poetry


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The warning of bent things (#298)


Horizons scare him
Too far, too straight
He hates driving on those highways
That go for miles with no change
Vegetables, wheat, corn
In neat rows to the side
Miles and miles
With the only non-linear things
Being the heat waves
That shimmer up and disappear

He wants a change in his life
But he is afraid
He has listened for too long
To the warning of bent things
The boomerang saying:
I used to be an arrow
But now I always return home
The plumbing elbows
That always get clogged with gunk
The wishbone
And its fear of tugging

You don’t U-turn on a highway

So he continues driving toward the horizon’s precipice
Straight until the end

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Posted by on August 13, 2015 in new poetry


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Old Eyes (#297)


I bet you think I am old
Gray bearded, weak eyed
Standing in the back of the elevator
Maybe wise, maybe stupid
Definitely not cool or hip

But really, I am Bobby
Twelve years old
Still intimidated by cute girls
Who have more friends than me
Knowing my clothes don’t fit right
My body growing in ways I can’t seem to control

I bet you think I don’t know what’s going on
As you whisper to your friends
About the old guy in the back
After all
I have a blank look on my face

But really, that blank look
Is because when you are old
You are better at staring at a cute butt
Without being caught

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Posted by on August 13, 2015 in new poetry


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What really matters (#296)


“A man knows where he is from when he knows where he would like to be buried.”
–Colum McCann

You can bury me wherever you want:
Garden, ocean, cemetery plot.
It doesn’t matter to me.
The body will be done.

But I do know where I want to be a ghost–
A bench somewhere
Overlooking a lake, pond, mountain trail.
Anywhere someone would sit and think.
I want to haunt them with whispers,
Reflective ideas they would think came
From the gentle breeze,
Recite some poetry
They could sense but not hear
So they looked out from that bench
With a poet’s eye,
Maybe sing gently just beyond their reach.

When I die
I want to stay in the conversation
Of beauty and ideas and connections.

You can do what you want with my body.
Just leave me the words.


Posted by on August 12, 2015 in new poetry, Uncategorized


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