Anticipation
I knew you were the type of girl
that would
take years.
Certainly more than one night.
I'm so fucking pissed I wore
my kiwi colored shirt.
And that I didn't dance.
But I had time---you would
take years
with your snappy sarcasm and
not-so-smooth logic, gnarled in your head
to notice
that we are the space between spaces,
that mood that sits in you as you
miss the train
and wait 20 minutes for the next,
standing on the platform while you
"mind the gap".
We are that moment that passes during
the off-beats of a dog panting--tongue out
dripping.
That instant of escalation when I look up
at something towering and realize what wealth is
and that I may have it,
before I slip back down and understand
that even with some luck, you would
take years from me.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Violet Dances (Poem) and John Sings (Poem)
These are the first 2 poems in a series about these 2 characters (John and Violet).
Violet Dances
But John sings, belting notes like beating bricks
with bare hands, hoping the noise breaks--
hoping that when he's done his fingers won't retreat to pockets
and find that ten that went through the wash.
Violet dances, sending symptoms of stasis
through onlooker's backs.
Swinging in swing circles,
and skipping through the notes that John attacks.
Violet, how long has it been since we've tasted
uncorrupted wind? No haze of bar baked smoke
from the sidewalk hoverers, or the juice
from beer-embalmed breaths.
Instead, we have a filter that works through osmosis of the eyes,
spheres launching from far ends.
John Sings
But Violet dances, twisting limbs and twitching hips
relaxing her body through twirling motion.
Relaxing her muddy eyes that only see
what each tumbling black curl will allow.
John sings, throwing fits into the grated cage of the mic,
curling his lips to accent the high notes he's about to hit.
The snap of his voice cranes necks to center stage,
but Violet's neck swivels through.
John, how long has it been since we've littered
a sidewalk? A losing lottery ticket dropped
to meet concrete and left to float on...oil-soaked
cellophane thrown from a window, it may never dry.
Instead, we have the mobility to launch our arms skyward,
fan out our fingers and hope someone else does the same.
Violet Dances
But John sings, belting notes like beating bricks
with bare hands, hoping the noise breaks--
hoping that when he's done his fingers won't retreat to pockets
and find that ten that went through the wash.
Violet dances, sending symptoms of stasis
through onlooker's backs.
Swinging in swing circles,
and skipping through the notes that John attacks.
Violet, how long has it been since we've tasted
uncorrupted wind? No haze of bar baked smoke
from the sidewalk hoverers, or the juice
from beer-embalmed breaths.
Instead, we have a filter that works through osmosis of the eyes,
spheres launching from far ends.
John Sings
But Violet dances, twisting limbs and twitching hips
relaxing her body through twirling motion.
Relaxing her muddy eyes that only see
what each tumbling black curl will allow.
John sings, throwing fits into the grated cage of the mic,
curling his lips to accent the high notes he's about to hit.
The snap of his voice cranes necks to center stage,
but Violet's neck swivels through.
John, how long has it been since we've littered
a sidewalk? A losing lottery ticket dropped
to meet concrete and left to float on...oil-soaked
cellophane thrown from a window, it may never dry.
Instead, we have the mobility to launch our arms skyward,
fan out our fingers and hope someone else does the same.
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