I need a place to ramble write, a notebook where the pages are small but not too small, where the lines are all in my mind and I can screw up your perception of reality by writing in corkscrew, spirals. I need a place where I can write without the constant clatter of a keyboard saying "I'm busy busy busy I'm busy now don't bother me I'm busy." I need the soft scratch of a good pen on good paper, thick paper but not too thick, I need the ink just flowing out, enough ink to pool on my finger and shine in the light when I move my hand. I need a place where I don't worry about spelling. I need poetry, I need prose ramble poetry that picks me up and doesn't make my fingers stop ever to repair, to replace, to fix make it perfect I don't need that! I need paper. I need pen. I need words and images and ideas and emotions. I need a place to write... and when I'm done, I need to be able to close the cover. I've started completely over here. I think I may make a habit of doing that every few months or so. And on September 4th, 2001, I have started all over again. 8/9 like the darness we treasure I blink silently and reach out for something I can touch find your words and draw back as if I have been burnt, blinded, found the light and discovered someting about myself I wonder what you see in my dazed eyes before I turn and if you hold your shoulders tight and your mouth set to stop yourself from following me back to the slow dance to the slow music in the thick dark where you never know who you'll bump into 8/9 keeping your eyes open when you kiss is only shocking when his eyes are open too and only interesting until you've memorized his freckles- only brings you closer until you know that what comes up mut come down and then you close your eyes and you feel every touch of his lips and tongue and the way his eyelashes brush your cheek and by then you never want to open you eyes again willing to trade all the blue skies and sparkling sunlight that ever was for the warmth of his fingers on your waist 8/9 the world which had momentarily halted remembered what it was about and went to find it's keys while you wiggled your toes and delayed putting on your shoes and although you didn't care about being left alone any more than you cared about where you were going you still found the silence unsettling 8/9 without knowing what lies are we laugh at the wrongness surrounding us and without knowing what love is we look into eachother's eyes as our hands brush against eachother and without knowing what burns we stayed in the sun all day and without each other we just drifted away 8/10 I can handle surprises when I'm expecting them which I am now I'm expecting love and I'm expecting hate and I'm expecting at least one thing I don't expect so at this point you can't make me nervous my only terror is myself Atlantis written august seventeenth You're on an island surrounded by oceans of my poems. I stuck you there, late one night so I'd know where to find you and to keep you safe and because I thought you wanted this contradictory ocean with its pockets of heat and cold, salty as tears never let out fresh as the first spring ever sprung So now you are condemned to wander perhaps frightened, even miserable but never bored. My multi-colored ocean, reflecting the sunset, loves your toes your fingers, your shoulders your lips it will get inside of you rip open your skin and shoot lasers through your fingernails it will fill you until your head flies off and it will empty you like a pond in summer and then you will rain from the sky with my ocean and your island will sink under the howling light storm and I will blow you to the desert and you will spread like ladybugs in the spring. 8/17 I do what I can I offer an ear sometimes a hug even less I struggle for words to give you I keep my eyes open for purple flowers you give me everything I've ever wanted without my having to ask 8/27 I may have changed but I define myself by the same things-- how hard I yell and how loud I laugh, things you can throw and things that break That's a new one-- I define myself in the glittering delicateness of breaking class I define myself by things left unfinished by things I cannot throw away by letters I never look at anymore and less and less I define myself by what words make me smile 8/30 at Birch Lake, Strawberry Music Festival So. I want to taste and touch everything tonight. My skin is tingling with moonlight. Echos from everywhere fill me. The moon hangs in the sky, staring intensely at me. I want to drink it. The tip of my tongue, the top of my throat, all along my chest and down to my very center... I want to run away, I want to tear my eyes away from the distance and coldth and the intenseness of it. When I look down laughter is closer and warm and makes my head turn. The moon is rushing down my arms and numbing my fingertips as it dances with the treetops and distant echos from a thousand radios ride across the water, rippling, shining like a sunrise. I would sleep on the topmost pine needle of the tallest tree, I would lie in this dry grass as the spiders dance their midnight dance on me, I would let the voices of this night take my hand and fill my journal, seal it over with wax and always be able to look through at my face this night, stars as eyes and spiders weaving my hair and the moon on my tongue, changing my very highest note to pure light. 8/31 This poem is a lie dedicated to you This poem is a moment when I should be doing something else This poem is written by an ugly woman This poem is startle at it's own thoughts This poem is stolen and twisted from lie to lie getting my keister out there This poem is unedited This poem is a candle in September lying on pine needles This poem is tolen from so many people it belongs to know one This poem is running out of room This poem over flows borders This poem leaks truth like tears I'm ready for whatever you decide is the confusion du jour I'm ready for the hugs and long talks I'm ready to burst out crying, I'm ready to make you laugh I'm ready to fall in love I'm ready to leave it all behind 9/26 you're holding the whole world in your hands and you turn it over and over as you wonder whether it's recyclable or not you peek into tree branches snail shells peel up sheets of soil and pat it back down wondering where the hidden treasure is wondering what the gift certificate is for you toss it back and forth from hand to hand, back and forth wish you had a couple more to juggle now that'd be something... you wish you had a bag to carry it in because it's getting a bit awkward to carry by yourself and you hold the whole world in your hands and helplessly look around for someone who actually wants the thing 10/13 "Have you ever lived in a tray-ler in Yoo-taw?" I hear laughter in his voice. "Sure." And the conversation stops. When I look at the boy in the red hat his eyes are sparkling his mouth open, empty of words. The boy in the white hat stares out the window his words slurred as he rests his jaw on his hand and his hand on the window ledge. We all watch the scenery roll by, graffiti, green water in the large cement river-- "Too slow." "How slow?" "Too slow." "Yeah." Gorgeous boys, gorgeous eyes under their baseball hats Cardinal and L-O-S--- I stare a little too hard and Cardinal turns around. "Whatcha writing?" "A poem about you." It goes on from there, white hat blushes... I ask what's written on his hat and Cardinal answers "Lost." I see it now, staring openly and I say "Oo, that's deep, that's metaphoric" and Cardinal says "Psychedelic." While Lost blushes and doesn't look me in the eye as he gets his backpack-- they're getting off at this stop-- Cardinal tells me they're in the military and as they get up I can finally see thier faces clearly and suddenly they seem much older and the train is emptier when they are gone. NBTSWikiWiki | Recent Changes Edited 37 times, last edited on October 17, 2001 by toodamnperky@nbtsc.org. © 2000 NBTSC Webmasters |
