I was going to swim
this morning
but then I found
a dead bird
in the pool
so I went inside
and ate four cookies.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
ALIENS
by Kim Addonizio
Now that you’re finally happy
you notice how sad your friends are.
One calls you from a pay phone, crying.
Her husband bas cancer; only a few months,
maybe less, before his body gives in.
she’s tired all the time, can barely eat.
What can you say that will help her?
You yourself are ravenous.
You come so intensely with your new lover
you wonder if you’ve turned
into someone else. Maybe an alien
has taken over your body
in order to experience the good life
here on earth: dark rum and grapefruit juice,
fucking on the kitchen floor,
then showering together and going out
to eat and eat. When your friends call—
the woman drinking too much, the one who lost
her brother, the ex-lover whose right ear
went dead and then began buzzing—
the alien doesn’t want to listen.
More food, it whines. Fuck me again,
it whispers, and afterwards we’ll go to the circus.
the phone rings. don’t answer it.
You reach for a fat eclair,
bite into it while the room fils
with aliens—wandering, star-riddled creatures
who vibrate in the rapturous air,
longing to come down and join you,
looking for a place they can rest.
by Kim Addonizio
Now that you’re finally happy
you notice how sad your friends are.
One calls you from a pay phone, crying.
Her husband bas cancer; only a few months,
maybe less, before his body gives in.
she’s tired all the time, can barely eat.
What can you say that will help her?
You yourself are ravenous.
You come so intensely with your new lover
you wonder if you’ve turned
into someone else. Maybe an alien
has taken over your body
in order to experience the good life
here on earth: dark rum and grapefruit juice,
fucking on the kitchen floor,
then showering together and going out
to eat and eat. When your friends call—
the woman drinking too much, the one who lost
her brother, the ex-lover whose right ear
went dead and then began buzzing—
the alien doesn’t want to listen.
More food, it whines. Fuck me again,
it whispers, and afterwards we’ll go to the circus.
the phone rings. don’t answer it.
You reach for a fat eclair,
bite into it while the room fils
with aliens—wandering, star-riddled creatures
who vibrate in the rapturous air,
longing to come down and join you,
looking for a place they can rest.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
it is easier to hide imperfections during the winter
women tend to gain at least
five pounds during the
cold months.
luckily we can hide beneath
chunky sweaters, scarves, boots.
the chicago wind
causes tomato red faces,
i don't mind because
the lack of sun allows
me to hide freckles.
i don't like the way
my freckles are splattered
up-down-around my nose
like a pollack.
i wish i had perfect skin.
you know what i'm talking about,
the snow soft skin of the lilies
displayed throughout my aunt's home.
home. is it possible for people
to have more than one home?
i think i have three.
i might be imagining
like when i was young
and i would hide in my
grandmother's closet
pretending to be an orphan
on the run.
five pounds during the
cold months.
luckily we can hide beneath
chunky sweaters, scarves, boots.
the chicago wind
causes tomato red faces,
i don't mind because
the lack of sun allows
me to hide freckles.
i don't like the way
my freckles are splattered
up-down-around my nose
like a pollack.
i wish i had perfect skin.
you know what i'm talking about,
the snow soft skin of the lilies
displayed throughout my aunt's home.
home. is it possible for people
to have more than one home?
i think i have three.
i might be imagining
like when i was young
and i would hide in my
grandmother's closet
pretending to be an orphan
on the run.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
CRUSH
by Ada Limón
Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.
by Ada Limón
Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A Workout of Epic Proportions/Love at the Wrong Time
Most mornings, I rise before (or with) the sun.
Not that you really care, but I have the same
routine every morning.
I won't get too detailed because I would like
to maintain some privacy.
(Some poets spill too much
onto the pages of poems.)
I eat a banana with soynut butter
before I head to the gym
for a workout of epic proportions.
This "Hollywood" gym
is not exactly full of beautiful people.
To my left, a man riding a stationary bike.
To make less of a mess, he neatly placed
newspapers around the bike
for the kind and simple use of
soaking up his puddles of sweat.
Upstairs, an Asian woman in too tight
black spandex shorts, pink-white striped top,
bright blue chuck taylors
swings her arms as she runs on the eliptical
as though she is about to take flight.
I have two friends at the gym.
The Schwarzenegger-looking trainer--
I don't know his name, but he looks like a "Brad"
or maybe a "Mike"-- and Sandy.
Sandy is probably 75 or 80 years old,
he has never been married,
he was almost married a few times.
Marriage is not worth it, he says,
how can you be with one person forever?
Sandy is a good looking man.
I can tell by the twinkle in his eyes,
he used to be quite the heartbreaker.
He tells me that he only wanted to date
good looking girls, no big mamas.
We both know this gym is not
the place to meet anyone of interesting
character.
Driving home in a sweat soaked t-shirt
is not exactly the most flattering attire.
Today I wore my yellow "Indiana" shirt--
I hate that state and so does Dean Young.
Not that you really care, but I have the same
routine every morning.
I won't get too detailed because I would like
to maintain some privacy.
(Some poets spill too much
onto the pages of poems.)
I eat a banana with soynut butter
before I head to the gym
for a workout of epic proportions.
This "Hollywood" gym
is not exactly full of beautiful people.
To my left, a man riding a stationary bike.
To make less of a mess, he neatly placed
newspapers around the bike
for the kind and simple use of
soaking up his puddles of sweat.
Upstairs, an Asian woman in too tight
black spandex shorts, pink-white striped top,
bright blue chuck taylors
swings her arms as she runs on the eliptical
as though she is about to take flight.
I have two friends at the gym.
The Schwarzenegger-looking trainer--
I don't know his name, but he looks like a "Brad"
or maybe a "Mike"-- and Sandy.
Sandy is probably 75 or 80 years old,
he has never been married,
he was almost married a few times.
Marriage is not worth it, he says,
how can you be with one person forever?
Sandy is a good looking man.
I can tell by the twinkle in his eyes,
he used to be quite the heartbreaker.
He tells me that he only wanted to date
good looking girls, no big mamas.
We both know this gym is not
the place to meet anyone of interesting
character.
Driving home in a sweat soaked t-shirt
is not exactly the most flattering attire.
Today I wore my yellow "Indiana" shirt--
I hate that state and so does Dean Young.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
i never cry, but your poem made me cry
joe's poems make me almost cry,
but the tears never actually fall
like the giant los angeles rain drops
that hit my car on the way to work yesterday.
i do cry sometimes.
i just don't usually let people
see me cry.
it's private, you know.
i think you saw my tears once.
it was the night that i threw a bottle
at the ceiling, ripped up old photos,
and crushed the last dead rose.
but the tears never actually fall
like the giant los angeles rain drops
that hit my car on the way to work yesterday.
i do cry sometimes.
i just don't usually let people
see me cry.
it's private, you know.
i think you saw my tears once.
it was the night that i threw a bottle
at the ceiling, ripped up old photos,
and crushed the last dead rose.
Oh No, Dwight Howard
I am no sports wiz. I know a few things about a few teams. And when I don't know anything about either team, well, then I pick which team I like best based on the team colors AND/OR if the team has any especially good looking gentlemen.
I do really love basketball. I have been following the playoffs, and really only missed games when I was truly unable to access a television. But I did check the scores on my always faithful blackberry.
The Bulls-Celtics series was unreal. It brought me back to the glory days--the days when the Bulls dominated, when we knew they would win no matter what because we had Jordan, Pippen, Kukoc, Kerr, and even Bill Wennington. The Bulls almost beat the defending champs, and my second favorite team in the NBA, the Boston Celtics. Crazy, right? In fact, it's so crazy that I put off doing several papers because I wanted to watch the Bulls school my man, Paul Pierce. We all know what happened: the Bulls lost and I finally got my homework done.
Now I was going to whole-heartedly cheer for the Celtics. That was until I discovered a new found love for Dwight Howard aka Superman. Some of my friends and family know that it is my dream to marry a professional basketball player because I want to be able to wear heals. My friend Jene told me that, I could have ANY professional basketball player except Dwight Howard. Dwight is her man, and he's off limits. Apparently, Dwight is everyone's "man" because I know of a few not-so-single ladies who are his biggest fans. Anyways, I wanted to remain true to my Celtics, but I couldn't help but secretly root for the Magic. I'm sorry Paul, but there is now another man in my life.
Once the Magic defeated the Celtics, I didn't have to feel guilty about being an unfaithful fan. Everyone, including King James, thought that the Cavaliers had it in the bag. There was no way that LeBron James was going to let the Magic take the series. I bet my brother five dollars that the Magic would be the Caves. I'm not much of a gambler, but I should have bet him $500!
Everyone was saying, "Kobe v. LeBron in the finals will be like Jordan v. Jordan." Please! No one, I repeat, No one will ever be as good as MJ! King Jordan, not King James.
So here we are. My new man, Dwight Howard, made it to the finals. And there he is, looking so good but not playing so hot. Game 1 of the finals was tonight in LA, and needless to say, it was painful to watch. Lakers 100. Magic 75.
Dwight, I know you have a lot on your mind. Game 2 is Sunday, and you have much work to do before then. Maybe in your free time you Google your name just to see what people have to say about you, and maybe this post will come up. So, here it goes: You are Superman! Get it together. Get out on that court and dominate. You hear me? Dominate. Phil Jackson doesn't need his TENTH ring. And Kobe, oh gosh, please don't even get me started on Kobe. I can't stand him. You show Kobe who's boss. You got that? Remember: Dominate.
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