tall poems

Landing in Philadelphia

2009-12-13T17:55:00.000-08:00

There is a certain altitude
where you can see the curve of the Earth,
and I don't think we were there - but,
I could feel it -
the arcing horizon,
the slight bend of light
at 30,000 feet - descending -
I could feel
the change in cabin pressure,
my ears popping,
turbulence,
and I thought, sure,
we could die like this - and
I would never have said
anything.

Or maybe,
in the throws of tumbling
luggage
and exploding fine-tipped pens,
I would throw away
the scribbled paper and
say something -
anything -
just because I think you should know how that book ends
and that you are interesting
and that I would like to get to know you
and that you are worth the risk.

But when the shaking stopped,
and the pressure came down,
and I was writing by your reading light
at 12,000 feet,
while the pilot said we were
coming into Philadelphia,
I couldn't feel the curve of the Earth
anymore. I couldn't feel anything at all.
And I thought, sure,
we could live like this - and
I would never have said
anything.

I am not a poet

2009-07-13T20:55:00.000-07:00

and, if it weren’t for insurmountable evidence to the contrary,
I would argue that
I am not a writer either,
however, my parents’ money –
of which I have never fully determined the precise amount
(as I am also not a mathematician) –
that bought the BSJ
I will officially receive a month from
tomorrow, clearly thinks that
I am.
This Bachelor of Science Journalism
would indicate to anyone that I am a
journalist – which, of course,
as I am not a writer (or photographer or broadcaster)
I am not –
but it thinks I am.
Which I guess is a harmless enough thing
for money to do
(after all, we’ve seen it do so much worse)
so I think I can live with that.
But a poet?
That seems like a stretch.
I think there’s a better name for this thing I’m doing –
something less serious – less refined – less
poetic.
I think it just sounds too cool at the bar –
Me? I’m a writer.
Yes, poetry.
That sounds good, doesn’t it?
That sounds like bullshit.
No twenty-one year old girl would fall for that –
in fact, I’ve found that writing poetry for girls tends to freak them out –
although, that might just be because I’m not a poet –
I bet it worked for Frost,
definitely for Shakespeare,
Seuss probably too
(I bet he got weird girls
(short ones, tall ones, green ones, orange ones)) –
but this poem (if you insist on calling it that)
won’t get me girls
or a paycheck or
any closer to what I am
or am not.

In Case of Emergency

2009-07-13T20:52:00.000-07:00

The dogs are the first to know – always
on guard for this kind of thing.
They smell it and sniff and dig and
would claw it out – if it weren’t buried so deep. They tell

The moon, who listens – always
waxing and waning and indecisive.
In premonitions and dreams she
sees it all at once – but is never sure. She tells

The heaviest clouds – always
lingering with their fat bellies swollen
‘til they just might burst into pieces
and then crash – and they are telling

The dirt, the soil, the earth – always
moving and shifting and churning
and mixing into a great cake –
sprouting candles and telling them,

The grass and trees – always
reaching for heaven and coming up with
air. So they say Something is urgent and
the air says I know, the clouds already told me, I told

The kid on the highway – always
driving too fast, his window down
to stay conscious – he feels it in the cold and tastes it on his breath
and can’t quite name it, or call it, or tell it.

Number Four

2009-07-13T20:51:00.000-07:00

My name is on the wall
of an Ohio University English Department
ladies room
(or so I’m told)
but not following a quote
(though that is success)
and not for a good time
(though that is success)
but as
Number Four
out of four (no, not five)
(no, not three)
of the (apparently definitive) list of
The Top Assholes at OU (Vol. 1, 2009)
which could be success
(if I was top three)
(and if my name was spelled right)
but fourth place is always a little insulting
(you don’t even get a trophy)
and I wonder
what I did (or didn’t do)
to turn this author from
a girl taking a crap
to a Sharpie wielding
asshole expert.

Alarm Clock

2009-07-13T20:50:00.001-07:00

You are steady
and persistent
ever pressing
for attention
yelling shouting
louder louder
Now Now Now Now
you scream and curse
and speak in tongues
on and on and
so impatient
yelling shouting
louder louder
Now Now Now Now

Ski Trip

2009-02-24T12:24:00.000-08:00

We stand on a cloud –
a snow covered cliff
in the avalanche zone
of Keystone, Colorado –
where the wind whirls and whips
with wide open palms
piercing our parkas
like needles and
you look cold.
Our teeth click and clack -
Our voices shake and shiver -
And I would complain right now,
but I’m getting too old
for that -
and so are you.
You with your sharp smile clenching
onto this one last
father and son
ski trip.

Finding Ryan in My Wallet (Eight Years After the Funeral)

2009-02-24T12:21:00.000-08:00

As I thumbed my last five
from between wrinkled receipts and
a two dollar lottery ticket
I had a revelation:
this wallet,
this folded pocket of personal affects
and pulverized plastic
was a six-by-three
leather spine shifting
parasite.

And so -
with personal health always a concern -
I proceeded to operate:
removing
Blockbuster and CVS
buy-one-get-one coffee
and credit cards
that only cause trouble
until
between a love note
and Emily’s photograph
I found you –

exactly as you told me
to remember you
(except, of course, in black and white)
but still young
and happy
and living
and here.

I must have cut this Kodak
moment to wallet size
eight years ago
when it was the only thing
left to do
once your mom said you
were gone.

In this dream

2009-01-31T20:00:00.000-08:00

I am ten -
playing pool with
myself in a local
pub
that no longer
exists
my parents
somewhere
wear swimming trunks
and sip
beers with the neighbors’
volleyball team
one ball, corner pocket
and the room
dims
into sharp blackness
while I
evaporate
into white
glare
blind
I
hear
everything
at once
in a
song -
that
is surely
the voice of God.

Why They Don't Teach Tack in History

2009-01-31T19:57:00.000-08:00

I remember assigned seating.
I was one of the lucky ones -
R is almost always in the back of the room when it’s
alphabetical and
back there
we could get away with anything.
Tic-tac-toe. Notes. Even paper airplanes.
Mrs. Gorino never suspected a thing
as she enlightened the class once again
on the unprecedented importance of
long division in our daily lives.

I remember the day that tic-tac-toe lost its thrill.
X’s and O’s wouldn’t cut it.
We needed danger.
We needed adventure.
We needed risk.
Or Battleship. Or Clue.
Or a tack
from the corkboard
placed inconspicuously on the chair
of my neighbor.

I remember our pride:
We are geniuses!
How could it be that such a game
had yet to be played?
How could it be that Mrs. Gorino’s history books
had yet to record such innovation?
The Egyptians could keep their pyramids -
We had no use for Roman Aqueducts –
The wheel was just a rock -
We had Tack.

I remember when Maggie Hearthneck -
who by all alphabetical rights
did not belong in the back of the room -
joined the game
with a handful of shiny silver tacks
that she dropped
down my pants.

I remember standing,
slowly,
and walking,
waistband in hand,
legs strategically duck-footed,
to the front of the room.
May I go to the bathroom?
I mumbled
as a flood of tacks
rushed like a swarm of silver beetles from my pant leg.

Perhaps the world wasn’t ready.

Thank You Spellcheck

2009-01-19T19:48:00.000-08:00

Restaurant.

Bite my lip
Crack my knuckles
- Look like I’m thinking –
I remember!

R-E-S-T-R-A-U-N-T. Restraunt.

Back of the line.

Opinion.

Close my eyes
Tap my foot
- This one’s tricky -
I remember!

O-P-P-I-N-I-O-N. Oppinion.

Back of the line.

Tomorrow.

Check the ceiling
Check my shoes
- Don’t make eye contact -
I remember!

T-O-M-M-O-R-O-W. Tommorow.

Three strikes. You’re out.

I remember staring wide-eyed at the answer key.
Each word neatly typed,
properly spelled,
completely accurate.

Except the ones hand written in red:

F - Victor will never be a good writer.

redlight greenlight

2008-11-18T07:13:00.000-08:00

if it gets to be too much
just walk.
across the floor
and out the door.
i'll be at your heals
pleading to the back of your hair.
that seems like the way to handle things
doesn't it?
i've played tag before:
stop and go.
redlight greenlight.
red rover red rover
let me come over
so we can talk face to face.
so we can hold hands.
so we can stop playing games.

you're it.

insomniac

2008-10-24T11:05:00.000-07:00

lately,
i can't sleep.
it's not that i physically
can't sleep,
it's just that i don't have the
time to spare.
think of all the late nights / early mornings
that i could be spending with you:
we could talk about stuff,
we could listen to music,
we could watch tv,
we could look at each other,
we could make out.
but - oh darn - i'm asleep.
is that worth it?
the human body can survive
on minimal resources,
but the human heart
is not nearly as resilient.
so, i wonder,
is my half-asleep, wide-eyed, scatter-brained state
due to sleep deprivation
or does this have something to do with
you?

once upon a time

2008-10-21T17:24:00.000-07:00

not too long ago
in a place not too far from here
a boy and a girl
too foolish to know it
fell in love.

and they lived happily ever after.
the end.

before i turn all this into poetry

2008-10-01T18:40:00.000-07:00

let's take a minute to talk.
set aside artistic perspective
so i can stop appreciating
the irony of the situation
and be serious -
for a moment.
we'll talk this out
without
graceful words
or smooth melodies.
with tongues tied
and breathing choked
we'll drive this through my heart.

when i was blind

2008-09-25T10:27:00.000-07:00

for thirty minutes
i was blind to everything
in my way.
all obstacles disappeared.
all hesitance became invisible.
there was nothing
and everything
everywhere.
my entire universe was held together by your hand.
we were two bodies filling an empty space.
then
i could see.

printer

2008-09-24T21:23:00.000-07:00

you've got rhythm.
you've got backbeat.
you've got inked fills
riding on a paper high hat.
you're a metronome
leaving your fingerprints on every sound you create.
sometimes singing
- never dancing -
but always rocking
that steady beat.

idiot

2008-09-24T14:16:00.000-07:00

i can't resist
a smile.
a real smile.
not a fake
contrived
hollywood
extra white
(with tartar protection
and mint)
gleaming
ear-to-ear
look how happy i am
smile.
i'm talking about the smile you get
when you don't know that you're smiling until
it's too late.
the kind that only makes you smile more when
you realize
oh shit! i just smiled at her!
and then you're standing there
laughing at yourself
(and blushing a little)
smiling like an idiot
because you caught yourself smiling like an idiot
at someone who, now, happens to be smiling like an idiot too
(except, of course, she looks nothing like an idiot
because she looks gorgeous).

now would be the perfect time to say something charming
or at least clever (or at least my name).
but what can i say?
so there you are
and here i am:
a couple
of idiots
who can't
stop smiling.

the couple

2008-08-25T13:39:00.000-07:00

they sat
like they were being painted:
under the tree
by the water
watching the sunset.
a piece of human art.

monet at normandy

2008-08-25T13:33:00.000-07:00

i went home for a day
and walked the beach
and sat on the jetty's
like monet at normandy.
i watched them swim
and play
and heard
the undertones of currents on rocks.
i sat in the surreal cliché
of sunsets and water
beaches and gulls
broken only by the
other monets
at their own normandies.

the poet's question

2008-08-18T22:37:00.001-07:00

have you ever written something
and wondered
how you never thought that before?

elevator

2008-08-18T22:35:00.000-07:00

there's something
unnerving
about when you can't see the top of a skyscraper.
like the fastest
way to heaven
is in an elevator.

the black album

2008-08-15T19:32:00.001-07:00

i was late to the trend
of course that's my bend
never heard rap song until i was ten
that was then
now sitting in my living room
i understand why basses boom
why the album moves
why people sue
why track two
leads me to track three
to four - to five - to thirteen
somewhere between an american novel and a magazine
saying things we can't say 'cause they're banned
from our consciousness
while jay to the z tries to rebuild our responsiveness

thelonious monk

2008-08-11T22:18:00.000-07:00

propped up against my headboard
in the dark.
monk's dream buzzing in my earbuds.
the l.e.d. marches toward daybreak
- completely offbeat.
i can't see a thing
beyond the monitor's glazed glare
- hands perched on the keyboard.
- fingers drumming for pace.
- a thin white umbilical cord.

the 60

2008-08-04T22:39:00.000-07:00

we rode the bus
together
every day, but
we never
knew each other.
we never
spoke to one another.
we never
exchanged friendly greetings.
neither even acknowledged
the other's existence.
for three months
i wondered where
the 60
was taking him.

from the bottom of the deep end

2008-08-02T13:46:00.000-07:00

the children's shrieks and squeals
muffle to hums.
their boy-made currents
ripple and tide.
flickering strobes
break into millions of pieces
in the cool cool water.

stranded

2008-08-02T12:25:00.000-07:00

in the
heart of harlem,
she was cut off.
completely alone
on the crowded island.
here, people live on top of each other.
here, people walk under foot.
and right here - right now -
she was in the dark
under the buzz of insomniatic neon.

dear kyle

2008-07-29T20:01:00.000-07:00

i'm sorry
that i missed your wedding.
i wanted to be there.
if it hadn't been for
arkansas, oklahoma, tennessee, kentucky, and indiana,
you can bet that i would have been there -
right in the front row.
well, probably more like the fourth or fifth row -
just behind your family
the elderly
the hard of hearing
those in wheel chairs
and your slightly more punctual friends.
but, i would have been there.
your friend
in the fourth (or fifth) row.

PS: please call me when you get this - i lost your number.

lab safety (tip #3)

2008-07-28T21:38:00.000-07:00

attention is a highly acidic ingredient
in the formula for the modern relationship;
both lethal
and vital
to the chemical imbalance
commonly known as love.
too much and you'll spill over;
burning the hands that hold you.
too little and you'll evaporate
altogether.
measure carefully
and always wear proper eye protection.

limit me -

2008-07-27T21:28:00.000-07:00

so that i can reach into the obvious and find the unseen.
limit me -
so that i can find the twists in the ordinary turns.
limit me -
so that i can turn on all realistic expectations.

morning train

2008-07-27T01:28:00.000-07:00

the sunrise
takes the morning train
into the city.

wait here.

2008-07-26T22:00:00.000-07:00

this Starbucks
is a bus stop.
wait here.
you won't look
like you're waiting
and when it arrives
nobody will know
that you were
here.

young for my age

2008-07-26T20:09:00.000-07:00

the old lady told me
you look young
for your age.

i feel young
for my age.

like i'm living on a whim -
but not the rebellious kind -
like the guy who has to fly the plane
because the pilot keeled over
between cleveland and dallas.

eventually we all crash land.

just try to avoid
lakes and rivers -
and especially oceans.