A Poem, A Memory

A Poem, A Memory

I'd like to get past those pupils of yours,
(Constricting, dilating, and constricting again,)
and find myself
happily within
the small brick home
inside your head.

first I'd wipe my feet outside the cornea,
taking care not to upset the irises in their terracotta pots,
Pausing on the threshold
to notice a shade of blue
so slightly different from my own blue,
and then enter
through that circular door.

Once inside, I'd take off my coat
and make myself comfortable;
languidly perusing the paintings on the wall,
admiring the naturally finished hardwood floors
(they compliment the oak furniture so nicely, by the way).
and continuing on,
I'd look at the organized nick-naks
on the desk in the corner.

I'd have a snack from your fridge.
Just a little snack
to afford me satisfaction.
Wedge shaped slices of apples,
celery with peanut butter,
and miniature carrot sticks with ranch dipping sauce,
like the ones my mother used to make.

But finally,
when I’ve made myself at home,
I will be sure to take special note of your bookshelves.

There are a great many novels and experiences here.
Books stacked up neatly and dusted
but in no particular order.
Some books are new-looking,
barely creases in the spines,
but others are worn ragged with reading
and re-reading.
A few of them have our own names
authored on shiny-glossy covers,
While others like the travel guides
serve as tea coasters,
There’s also a norwegian children’s book by Anne Cath. Vestly
(mormor og de atte ungene pa sykkeltur i danmark)
which rests next to your bed.


Later, I’ll curl up on the couch
with one of your more dog-eared books in hand,
vicariously living the emotions and motives you lived,
a kind of conversation between us within a book.
I’ll read until I’ve drifted off to sleep,
gradually, painfully
coming back into consciousness
when I notice the puddle of drool upon my shoulder.

I could stay here
like this forever,
but it’s time to go so I’ll leave a little note or poem.
Something to tell you I was here,
and how much I appreciated it.
Something cute and heartfelt
full of memory.

On my way out I grab the trash and pull it to the curb,
not forgetting to constrict and lock those pupils behind me.
I leave the key in the hiding place
next to the garage,
and look back upon your face to remember it for later.

Your eyes are not the soul’s windows
which everybody talks about and have made cliche,
they’re doorways.
Ones which I hope will open for me again when the time is right,
a time I can find myself
at home in permanence.
Until then,
may this memory suffice to sustain us.

stole this link from a friend.., super cool

Broken Fingaz -Graffiti Stop Motion from Broken Fingaz on Vimeo.

Heart Upon a Wall

When you hang there, your heart upon a wall for all to see,
crimson calluses form in the open air.
And if un-admired, untended, and unrequited;
time fades both shade and feeling into something unrecognizable.
An absurd picture you’ve painted, and forgotten
at passing by, why you’ve hung it there in the first place.

Gus Johnson
401B
It starts with hurriedly rummaging through my desk for headphones, but soon enough I’m plugged in and walking. I’ll cross Evans Avenue, sliding past the maintenance buildings, on my way up to campus tonight. Andrew Bird’s “Armchair Apocrypha” is my sole companion for this journey. His whistle solos and violin melodies perfectly accompany the length and tempo of my strides. With every step I lay a little footprint, a tiny stress mark on the grass, as if the act of movement somehow reduces tension from my muscles and leaves it on the ground through the soles of my shoes. I’m going to the baseball diamond just beyond the intramural fields. One might think that I’m meeting a date to watch a game, but I’m doing nothing of the sort. There won’t be any lights shining for a night-game. This place of crowded benches, foul balls, and hot-dogs, of popcorn, peanuts and beer is now void of sports fans. I’m going there to be alone.

There is a trash can near the visitor’s entrance which aids me in hopping over the steel fence. The can is a perfect stepping stool, and it’s so conveniently placed. Why not take advantage? I am able to hop the fence quite easily, even in my flip-flops. My knees have to do a bit of shock absorption on the other side, but all-in-all it’s a very simple process. Once inside the park, I pass closed vending stands and resume my station in seat twelve to look out over the field.
The protective mesh net four feet in front of me is used as a backstop. It is also used to keep old men in faded caps safe from foul balls, but I’m using it as an object for unfocussed attention. I look through it the same way I concentrate on those 3D computer generated images. I don’t know whether or not I’m trying to find a hidden picture or meaning, but my eyes slip lazily back and forth between the fabric of the net and the negative space between it as if I was.

After taking a short stop near second base, my view extends another 300-something feet out to centerfield. Beyond that is the parking lot. Sometimes I’ll watch cars go by; a kind of steady stream of students and employees returning home from campus. My eyes follow their taillights as they trace the arched fence beyond the warning track. Next, I raise my gaze up to the neon blinking of the Circus-Circus sign for the hotel and casino. It’s iconic to look upon, but I mostly use it to test my sense of timing. I snap my fingers in unison with the light board switches, and pretend I caused the change. Finally, I lift my view a little further up to the night’s sky; rejoicing in the steadiness of an unblinking pop-fly moon.

The first few times I went to the baseball diamond every noise made me nervous. Perhaps some maintenance man was still cleaning up. Every dull metallic popping sound from a settling bleacher was an unknown intruder, and every car that drove by the perimeter could most definitely see me. I just got the feeling that I was not supposed to be there. I don’t know what they would do if I were caught; probably just ask me to leave. I don’t even really know who “they” is (it’s just one of those “they” situations.) “They” wouldn’t approve.

Mostly I go to the field to mull things over. Something always brings me there seeking refuge: girls, homework, you name it. At these times I’m on overload. Surprisingly, I do little actual thinking while I’m sitting in seat twelve. If I thought things out any further, I’d just be adding more stress to the situation. I’m giving my brain time and space to work itself out, to unwind and decompress. I try to think of the brain as an old library. I’ve just got to give the librarian time to slide around on those rickety bookshelf ladders before I can expect to get the volume I’m looking for.

From seat twelve home plate sits directly before me, and from there the field expands along the foul lines into a sort of reverse horizon. I’m sitting at the vanishing point. Instead of looking out at that dot in the distance, the one where I used to draw railroad tracks and two lane highways in my sketches as a child, it’s suddenly me who’s at that convergence of lines. I’m seeing a picture of and from my childhood.

I can see myself out in center field waiting for my father to hit me a pop fly. He’s reaching into an old Ace Hardware concrete mixing bucket to grab another Diamond brand baseball (they’ve all got his nickname “Moki” or some alternate spelling written in permanent marker so that people don’t take them when we go to little league practice.) I’m rocking onto the balls of my feet with nervous anticipation of judging the trajectory of the ball. He’s throwing the cowhide up with one hand and quickly using both again to swing in an uppercut. The ball is flying. I’m sprinting my hardest. If I catch these next five in the air, he’ll let me come in for my favorite part, batting practice. I’m out there on the field of my childhood, but I’m also sitting near my dad’s position in seat twelve.

Resting on that folding plastic chair, it gradually dawns on me that most things depend on your point of view. I go to the baseball diamond because I can see both past and present there. I see a perfectly manicured field before me, but I also see the rough and poorly managed ones of little league. I remember unconsciously averting gopher holes in center field, the ping of metal bats, and the crack of wooden ones. I remember the smell of pine tar and the taste of sunflower seeds. As I see both past and present, as if at a distance on that reverse horizon, the future kind of works itself out into a new perspective. Whether or not this girl really likes me, or whether or not somebody finds me here in seat twelve doesn’t really matter. The specifics aren’t as important as the theme: an impression of perspective is the reason I go to the baseball field alone at night.

"if you're all done, like you said you'd be, what're you doin hanging out with me"
-Elliott Smith


   Whatever (Folk Song In C) by

A Simple, Cheesy, Rhyming Poem

I want to write a love poem
but cannot find the words
And while sitting here
I've tried to compare, you
to an assortment of flowers, fish and birds.

The ideas expressed,
as they rest
upon this blotted page-
grow no better
no matter the letters
or like a wine with age.

"I shall not want what I have not got"
The words I keep repeating
and every time I catch that glimpse
I must remember it is fleeting

Though on Valentine's, this Valentine's-
I hope to see the day
when I, no longer must submerge my heart
and hide my love away