poetry fragments

one day we say
one day we’ll do it all
whatever it is
I’ll swim naked at night
I’ll see Venice
I’ll get published
one day I’ll write that book

one day we say
one day we’ll do anything at all
anything
I’ll get rid of those dead flowers
I’ll wash the dishes
I’ll feel like getting up in the morning
one day I’ll remember to call

—

hey, remember me?
I’m you, you know, from before
hey, remember how you used to feel?
I feel it now
hey, feel it again
listen to this, see
the music takes you back
it always does, doesn’t it?
I knew it would
hey, remember you’re not me anymore
don’t get lost in that feeling
you can stop feeling it now
hello?
you coming back?
step back out of that feeling
are you listening to me anymore?
hello?

—

your brain should be a buzzing symphony
or so I’m told
what is the appeal of raw garlic?
it makes me less hungry
and these boots make me feel like a rockstar, but
what does that signify?
plus all those drunken phone calls and texts
what did they ever accomplish?
nothing
nothing at all

—

All need more work, I think.
Thoughts?

two fragments

to remember us like this, and this, and this, and this
our bodies like continents
peninsulas extending
bending
as our plate tectonics lead to continental collision
and our geography undergoes revision
after revision
after revision
converging, and what is emerging?

—–

he tells her stop feeling old
there are still things you haven’t yet done
you never walked barefoot in the cold rain
you never wove on a loom
you never ate quinoa
she tells him stop feeling young
there are so many things you have done

—-

Neither feels done.

poem with found text

I’m going to call you, maybe.
I’m holding the telephone, but I keep looking down at it and wondering
‘What’s this for?’ then I answer myself
‘This is a telephone.
You were going to call . . .’
It has bite marks.
I chew on everything, but telephones are not for eating.
This I know.
. . . How?
Does ‘This is a telephone’ entail ‘You couldn’t eat it’?
Must I try to eat it, and fail, in the course of making sure that it’s a telephone?
And must I make sure that it’s a telephone?
The appeal of asking what it is
And confirming what it is
Is
It allows me put off the intended action.
(Calling you, that is.)
And then my intended action becomes putting off the intended action.
It’s even more insidious than such natural disasters as coffee-crazed cockroaches . . .
(This is a coffee-crazed cockroach, you couldn’t eat it.)
Coffee-crazed cockroaches crawling in from outdoors
To stare at the phone with me
Crawling into my closets, piled high with the promise of warm and wooly hats
Crawling through my closets to find the things I keep in back.
Hissing, are they hissing?
Yes, so they’re from Madagascar I assume.
Hissing watching me gnaw my fingers the phone a pen some chocolate
Waiting for me to dial the numbers, press send.
Listen to it ring, and wait.
Maybe I’m going to call you.

—

Text in green is not mine.

two sentences

I want to distill your essence down down down until I can put all of what you are into a syringe and inject you into my veins. I want to be able to mainline to you to fill the craving need I get when I can’t be with you.