Monday, April 23, 2012


I decided not to read the magazine
Just to hold it over my head.
It seemed silly to read - words make me sweat
So instead they will do what I won't regret.

Because if I keep on reading
I might know more.
Tiny shapes called letters form life altering lines:
Letters of love, lyrics for soul, purposeful signs. 

So why put them in my head,rather than on top?
Would I wish the risk to shift
my views, plans, my pure white skin?
I feel wise in this decision, but then again...

On a day with nothing to do
it seems easy to go mad.
crazy-mad, that is.
Not like mad that across the street there is a sprinkler.
Which does make me mad- in Arizona?

But there has to be something
I could learn, make go
or sit.  And inactively await a purpose.
And be bored- I am bored.
I'm bored of this poem. 

In this corner you might find:
a yellow butterfly,
floating Styrofoam pieces,
a stabbing ache,
newborn somethings beginning to unwind

broken glasses on the ground
I'm sorry.
Faint music lost,
just enough smoke to blink again,
Crumpled notes of remembrance found.

Where the lines come together
seems smooth to touch-
a crease.
But closer eye can see
a slight jagged slit, thin as a feather.

Is it dark and vast
or brightly acute?
Pulling apart these solid sides
or eyes squinting focus 
will never grant reach to what's past.

Because beyond is unknown 
This corner stands alone.
or does it?
can it?
It's own existence can't be on its own.

Each length connects to elsewhere.
To somewhere- something- someone
To touch an else.
Stretching- stretching up, out, down, away!
The pulling, pushing- anywhere but here.

But the core, the crevice, the corner
is here, folding in.
Pulling back to the unanswerable opening.
contradicting the outward scream,
calmly beckoning a place of center.

My corner speaks this strain:
hair ripping reach for another.
Get out! But wait,
there, see that yellow butterfly
slip through into the great remain.