Worlds

Although I know
“future” doesn’t exist, “past” doesn’t
exist, and if
I learned anything
from American literature it was never
to let a dream collect enough starlight
it blinds you.
But when you told me
what you had done with her,
I had already created a world
from stardust and blown eyelashes
fallen from our lids. I had
created cities of steel and reinforced concrete,
windowed skyscrapers, mirroring,
shining, streetlamps,
streetlamps,
and so much light.

Still I remember, the drive home
sitting shotgun on the way back
from the Cinemark in Moosic,
it was snowing
but the windows were down. Shivering,
I watched the cool blue-green glow
from the dashboards
of the cars around us, bubbled in
Honda Civics and Ford Escapes,
and thinking we all
create our own Earths, worlds,
homes.

When we pull into my driveway,
you turn the key,
shut off the ignition, the headlights
disappear, and the dashboard dims
and there is nothing left
but starlight, blinking,
white,
black.

My house is empty and I go
from room to room, switching on light
after light.

This was something else. As I continue to explore the interspace, I'm astounded by the talent I continue to stumble across. Thanks so much for your words. And thanks so much for your diligence. Inspiration is always so close nowadays.

Thanks so much (:

Geminids

Two porch-side stargazers, wrapped in a red blanket,
mid-December, facing opposite directions.
I lean, my back, against yours. Your spine
is toothed and sharp, but when you turn,
I can feel you.
It is cold, and we take swigs of wine
from plastic cups. There is an ocean
in my stomach.
Twenty-minutes go by, and I have seen more stars
than you. The warm yellow window-glow
from the house looks inviting. Then,
behind me, there is something like a lightning
flash. The liquid in my cup lights red,
for a moment, we are suspended,
held together in falling-starlight.
I turn in the direction you are looking,
but there is nothing now.

Dialogues for Daffodils

I write dialogues for the daffodils you gave me in November.
You didn’t speak—you knew my mother was asleep.
You held them out, an offering.
I say nothing.
There is nothing to be said to flowers, ribbons, foam, and Floralife.
I watch your frame fade into darkness,
hunched and huddled against the cold.
I see nothing for a while. Maybe we both adjusted
our eyes to the stars. Then, the cabin of your Saturn lights up
and you step in, darken,
the headlights come on—
I am standing in a box of light cast from the open door,
you are a blue-green world lit by a dashboard
at the end of my driveway.
When your taillights are no longer visible
I pick the petals, one-by-one,
not questioning your love,
but my own.
I have written dialogues for the daffodils you gave me in November,
I imagine their faces turned, mouths widened in sunlight—
the dialogues are blank.
They say nothing. They are only flowers.

What I meant was,do you write whenever an idea comes or do you sit down at specific times to write?

Sometimes I force myself to write, other times I’ll only really write when I am struck by inspiration. It is difficult to force oneself to write a poem. It is also difficult to force prose, however I feel like it is much easier and much more recommended to sit down every day and crank out a few pages of prose if fiction/non-fiction is your style. Sometimes I’ll read poetry books in order to try to gain inspiration as a happy-medium! 

hello :) i hope you don't mind, but i've added you to my favorite writing blogs list. take care xxx

How could I mind?? Thank you for your interest in my blog! 

Hey, loved the "Out of Focus" poem. My ex is from Allamuchy and I commute on 80 so it stuck out for me. Always surprises me when I see familiar places that are familiar to people I've never met. Anyway, great poem :)

Thank you so much. So glad you could connect with the poem!

Out of Focus

Bokeh, from the Japanese word boke-aji:
the aesthetic quality of blur;
polygonal spheres of out-of-focus points of light.

I was smiling on the I-80 westbound
scenic overlook outside Allamuchy, NJ
as the golden almost orange purple sun-mixed starlight
had me looking more beautiful
than I was.

Selective focus: distance from the subject,
aperture manipulation—
and then I am clearer than sunshimmer
through blackberry bushes.

My body, vibrant, rained on by soft geometric bulbs—
head tilted back slightly, jawbone jutted forward.
Spectacular reflections.

Your camera lens had me looking 
freer than I was.

The interstate: dark blue,
dotted lined
red to redder gradients of light.

But there was a certain slowness in the air between the taillights
and headlights and the break to blacktop from highway everyone
mistakes for exit 19 and veers back into
mobility
upon realization.

In a flash, I become a thumbnail on a screen,
the snow had it looking colder than it was—
or maybe it was the holes in my sweater that let through

fiery threads, my left arm arched over,
hand balled in a fist, and a sunshined-chalk outline around
my still-living body.

Why do none of your poems rhyme?

Some of them do (mostly internally), but I rarely write in rhyme. When poetry rhymes, especially contemporary poetry, often the focus of the poem is at the end of the line and everything before it is ignored. It is also more difficult to write from the subconscious when you are actively seeking words to fit that rhyme that don’t necessarily make sense. If you end a line in “love” you’re going to automatically think of “dove, above, glove” and try to come up with a way to fit those words into your poem instead of writing what you actually want to write about.

Pyrotechnics

My grandmother announced she hated winter
as Stephanie, from The Weather Channel,
waved in bright blue splotches on the radar
and advised morning commuters

to break out the ice scrapers.
“Your grandfather was overnight snow flurry.
Unnoticed, he accumulated into
sight. Silently, he thawed into ground.”

If so, she was an explosion.
She was streaks of blue and red.
Her spine: curved, bent into a bowling ball on a bumpered lane
into sky.
She burned, ceaselessly in a beam of light
screaming and sparkling,
spilling ash and torch on anyone behind.

“I am dying, and they are eating,
potato salad and coleslaw.”

What could she do
but be bright and make noise?

Nobody ever called her eyes stars; they are
manmade. Her black satin slippers, her cigarettes and the accompanied
cough, her change-purse and checks, the daydreams of cruise ships
are all manmade.

She is an explosion, transient, a second in vision,
a shatter in eardrums,
an afterglow in blinking eyes.
Fast, bright, bang, and nothing.

And when she discovered fire at her fingertips
she must have used it to cauterize
cartilage, joints, arteries, synapses,
memories, longing,
her larynx.

She looked out the window and said, “Snow
sometimes looks like
ash.”