Thursday, December 30, 2010

"Here's to not getting caught, here's to writing like you're possessed, here's to you being nuts"-Derrick Brown

It's more like a one-leaf

I have this undeserved sense of accomplishment
For the fact that I can
Whistle at a really high pitch
And fold my tongue into a shape that
Doesn't look like a three-leaf clover,
but is called that

Monday, December 27, 2010

Late night poetry attempting

Your Bones, My Bones

They say nothing in this life will ever hurt as much as this:

But, I keep telling you things I've said to nobody else

And I sometimes wonder what kind of pet we'll have when we're grown and alive and progressive

And I think about you all the time,

What your bones must feel like on mine,

And wanting the whole mass of your body so ridiculously close, your insides must be deafening

We’d fit together,

Like lego pieces in the construction of an awesome robot

If only you would just pick up on these subtle hints,

I wonder if there's anything I don’t do for show

When you're concerned,

I like to imagine the pace of your breathing exceeds expectations

When you hold me,

I like to imagine that some of these cliches feel original to you too

I want to be waiting in your heart with the comic books and booze,

The corny jokes and sports flicks,

That new sheet music,

That new bicycle

I am searching for a sign of reciprocated agony,

At least a little bit of appetite

But I can't own this:

Your bones

No, These bones are not mine

Handsome designs of some life I don’t know,

I haven't seen the final product,

It hasn’t been revealed

I cannot construct,

When I don’t have a blue print,

Or some booklet,

Telling me which bone fits where,

And how to build,

A robot,

Or something equally as awesome

Even Then

If I could lift up my soul,

Expose my heart, my nudity, a few choice secrets

If I could dance on air mattresses suspended high by tiny paperclips and rubber bands

With no fear

If I could marry this feeling,

Fill up your charities,

Write an autobiography that describes all I think about you, today

Give it to you with a flirt and a smile

I wouldn’t

I like the idea of it, anyway

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Christmas is Tomorrow

We're Jewish.

For some reason, we celebrate Christmas.

Not only this, but we also have the right to postpone Christmas until the 26th, when my sister comes home from grad school in London.

Not only this, but for the second year in a row, my mother has essentially stolen a tree on Christmas Eve (well, for us the eve before Christmas Eve), only due to the fact that no one wants to be out in the cold, selling trees on Christmas Eve.

So they leave them. Up for grabs, my mom says.

Christmas is tomorrow.

For all who were wondering.

Over the last couple of weeks...

The Burial

Upon looking at that photo of you:
You're taller,
perhaps wiser?

I remember how I felt then,
a flicker of something a bit stronger than longing,
a little less than fury,
creeps from some vague place in my gut

I miss you,

I don't like it either

Now I look at a photo of you and wonder if you've done,
Are doing,
Thinking, "She's the same. Perhaps fatter?"
And I wonder,
Or hope,
Some vague place within you is a little less than furious too


I am rereading my favorite book,
I have some sweaters that I used to wear,
I'm remembering how I learned to masturbate,
In Florida,
And you were in Ohio,
I missed you

and I don't know if any of it makes me as sad as it's supposed to,
if I am convincing myself I'm not sad when I clearly am,
if I'm just sad 'cuz I'm not really sad the way I'm supposed to be

We talked last night for the first time after

You said a lot of the right things, like:
I miss you
I'm sorry
You deserve better

I was simultaneously delighted and underwhelmed

I know you will never want to listen to me read poetry,
You will never enjoy my stupid, silly jokes,
You will never look good in a beard or hats

I can't understand how you can want me so much,
All I want is different

My favorite book is all about this sort of thing,
It doesn't really make me think of you at all


I daydream about many things

I daydream about how often you daydream about me naked

I don't think about you naked,
Not really,
Not nearly as much

Mostly I like to imagine your lustful eyes,
Picture your hungry groin,
(Or rather,
Think about you thinking about me picturing your hungry groin)

In my mind, your mind is driven mad with desire,
These fantastical ideas of my bare tits and

I'll ask a simple question:
Are you thinking about me thinking about you nearly as much as I think about you thinking about objectifying my body in all the ways I'm not supposed to want my body to be objectified in?

I picture myself straddling you in that chair,
Pulling you to the floor
Committing mortal sin in front of all these people


I'm more picturing you,
Picturing me
Straddling you in that chair (I'm naked, of course, in your imagined scenerio)
Pulling you to the ground
You want me to commit mortal sin to you in front of all these people

I suppose if one were to ask me,
What my wildest fantasies were,
I suppose I would have to say that I would like for you to want me as much as I want you to want me wanting you.

Not so much wild as,

Thursday, December 16, 2010

The Letter

I have been writing this letter that I will never give you. It's now several pages long, and still doesn't say everything I've been desperate to tell you for about a year now. The first line is, "There are too many reasons why I shouldn't write this letter."

And it's true.

And so I will never send it.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

"Today I'm not gonna worry about when I will get married, or when the money will run out, or when I will be honest enough to make myself whole."

That's Derrick Brown.