a poem for Shelley-Jo Talvacchia
April 17, 2012

This recent article from NPR describes a young poet whose only profession is sitting in the street with a typewriter and writing poems on topics suggested by pedestrians.  In the spirit of this brave individual’s endeavor to live off poetry alone, I have written a poem on a topic suggest by Shelley-Jo, my mother’s friend.  She asked for “a victory poem for love and kindness,” and so hopefully, the poem below speaks to her request.  If you would like to request a poem, by all means, let me know, and I’ll do my best (which, according to my mother, I always do).

Take all your slow winding-downs,
the watch hands sweeping out their
shadowed paths on pulsing wrists,
the sleep-darkened eyelid corners
where fear collects at the end of
the day, light fast fading.

Her breath is a whisper in
moonlight, silvered and silent,
but here, see her opened mouth,
her heart beating under the thin cloth,
see her hair laid out on the pillow,
hear the dreams spilling from her
lips, from her up-turned fingertips,
feel the strong, imagined, embrace –
take it.  It is the only thing laced
with the terror-free taste of
kindness (her sleeping self,
the characters of her most familiar
fantasies with their laughing hands,
their impossibly opened arms.
Fall into them.)  Let this be
the healing of every unmended thing.

a little prose poetry…
December 5, 2011

…or is it short fiction? Or is it fiction at all? Even I don’t know.

Manifesto of an insomniac

If you close your eyes tightly, you will perhaps see exactly what I see when I sleep.  Presumably, the inside of your eyelids are very similar to mine.  This is probably a good thing.  If we closed our eyes at night and were faced with completely unique visions of the blood rushing through our skin and could see reflections of our irises on wondrous eyelids made of mirrored panels, we would never get very much sleep.  We would be too preoccupied with the fascinating uniqueness of our own being.  I am convinced that this is always why we paint our ceilings white – so that if we wake up in the night and accidentally open our eyes, we will not be met with a ceiling that is out of the ordinary.  Whitewashed ceilings help to maintain mental sedation, I think.  Imagine what would happen if we let our children climb on ladders with crayola washable markers and scrawl all over the pristine surface.  We would wake up to monsters with a hundred legs and five sided kites and giraffes with crooked necks and nonsense words written with shockingly sure marker strokes.  We would never dream again, staring at that ceiling.  And we would try to close our mirrored eyelids and that wouldn’t help.  The whole world would be sleep deprived and full of color, and surely we would all go insane.

seven haikus for seventh week
October 26, 2011

It is seventh week.
I am afraid of the end;
it approaches fast.

Anarchism is
radical autonomy.
Can we live that way?

God is just ourselves
held apart from who we are.
Let’s take ourselves back.

I #occupy this
space surrounding my body.
I am a protest.

Disposable cups
are filling up my mind with
caffeine.  I can’t sleep.

My dreams are screenings –
films filled with chases, sex scenes.
Nighttimes are lucid.

Here between the lines
is a cozy place to be.
Inconspicuous.