old old stuff

I found an old notebook of poems from around the same time period, one of which is dated February 22, 2006. I didn't realize I wrote a lot of poems then. They appear to mostly be in response to prompts, but they aren't labelled, so I have to guess what the prompts were.

Anyway
I went to
go stand in
the yard and
watch the stars.

I know you
think it's
indulging
a bad habit

But I needed
to put my
head in my hands
and cry.

(I think this was some kind of WCW or short-lines prompt of some kind, I don't think I'd do this otherwise.)

Surrealism

The whole of my life has come into my room
and it is surprisingly small.
Here is a bowl of my memories, wishing it were
silver-white but sadly just a
paltry mix of half-stories, jagged and bright.

(not sure what if anything this was in response to or if it's related to the next one:)

Untitled

I have gathered everything in the world
in a room, and watch it from behind a two-way mirror.
You can tell from my glasses that I am a scientist.
I record my data and
put it in jars and
label the jars "poem."
[Four subsequent lines violently scratched out]

Dear March: It's Not a Contest

When we go to visit my sister in the hospital,

I wonder if I am forgetting some magic words,

some good-sister invocation to make everything right,

but I don't remember one,

so I buy her a magazine and we play board games.

My mother and I fight about my headphones.

She slams the door.

I wonder if I can spend my days

shelving CDs—I especially like alphabetizing—

because as much as I don't want to stay here,

I don't want to go anywhere else.

"Has March out-February-ed February this time?"

my girlfriend asks. I wish

I could tell you she was holding my hand,

but she was typing,

thirteen hundred miles away.

New Year’s Day

As the bells chimed, there was a wild

electric thrill in the air, a hum

of possibilities stretching out

in all directions, farther than we could see,

and we were laughing, and

I squeezed my cup so hard that Sprite

was streaming through cracks,

down my arm,

onto the pavement,

but it didn’t matter because

one of us moved first and

the new year was a whirlwind

and right at the center were Holly and I,

kissing.

[a too-long and rambling meditation on February that I don't care to transcribe in full, although I like:
"I never met him.
It's all about Alyssa.
Except for the time it was my sister
watching videos with half her hair shaved off.
My mother said there were never any debts
but she was lying."]

[followed by an incredibly boring poem about attempting to buy a ring at Kohl's as some kind of metaphor for emotional progress, why in the FUCK did I even bother to write this. The margins are full of hearts.]

Here it descends into fragments that don't make a lot of sense:

• "The first thing is that I got kicked out of engineering school"
• "Too many days hiding in bed after too many nights awake doing crossword puzzles on too much Adderall"
• A timeline that doesn't mean anything that I can discern with dates like "1998--Honorable Equinox"
• "Grief & Loss, I lost"
• "People who don't care about anythin will never understand people who do" "Yeah, but we won't care." [--Angel]

I hope everyone enjoyed this Content Theater for my poetry blog. I haven't written much lately. I've been too in love.

Today was the first cold day.
I stepped out of my car and thought "Where am I?"

Things become commonplace.

I cried where you couldn’t see, pressed against you. I descend to the lower level to ensconce myself in oak veneer—maybe we’ll never see eye-to-eye—and pretend, while she texts me my lines. I rest my head on a last-edition Black’s. Sometimes when I drink, I narrate series of verbs: “Stand. Pull. Set. Toss. Clutch. Click. Switch.” I have nothing to give you. My pockets are newly empty, except for a locket I clicked open one time too many. There’s a trick to it now. There are too many parts I can’t show yet, even while I say “This is everything.” I lie back on my red sheets, alone, and think, “Almost there.” All in good time. I raise glasses and whisper toasts. I start too many sentences with “I” that never finish.

you can't throw letters into the fountain.

Jules told me this morning that the weather did Boston first, then Baltimore. Life is more literary than literature, I remember, wishing I were sitting on the lip of the fountain where etc. while I relate this quotation to you, but I’m a thousand miles away from it and a quarter of that from you, wearing nothing but a gray t-shirt and addressing you letters I will throw into its lack of waters—it’s October, after all. I have photographic proof you’ve seen it but I’ve never asked you about it. I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling wishing you would return. I take photos with my phone I can't ever show you. I can’t justify word one of this to anyone, but there’s a pull, unassailable, and I’ll sit in a Baltimore train station at 3:55 Monday morning for reasons I can’t articulate. I take my permanent marker from a plastic cup on my desk with fortunes taped to it—“Stop searching forever, happiness is just next to you”—and write “You are Loved” at my base. I won’t tell you I did it, but it will be there when the Jack Bauer clock runs itself out.

old but good

the definitive word on the subject

And I was sitting at my desk pouring
a schnapps and Sprite lifting a toast to my
Sarah Jane out there somewhere so hey
this one's for you Christina with a 'C'
although really it's just the same problem
of attainability (I'm an attain-a-thon)
but for once it's something I can deal with
after all I'm still sitting at my desk drinking toasts
remembering late nights in bars alone
early evenings in restaurants together
and I write poems for girls
like it was going out of style (it's not)
because j'aime donc je suis—you don't speak
French but you figured it out.

kind of old school

"Words are treacherous and fueled by lies! They seek our destruction, for that is their liberation!"

every night

I press my pillow, folded in half, against
my head, and ignore the other, refusing
to monopolize my bed. I sheathe
myself in memories of green
July, or purple-white bursting
forth from Fell, plundered for
my hair. I keep always
to the right as I turn
over in my sleep.

stay tuned

I just sat up suddenly in bed, groped for a pen, and opened the red notebook I keep on my nightstand, writing furiously before my ideas got away from me. Finally the inspiration I'd been waiting for, so long beneath the surface, now ignited by circumstance. I have a Project. And it's going to be here. Soon.

an honest verse of longing

wish
you
were
here

two perspectives

For a complete failure at
everything that matters, I am
surprisingly functional,
or
for a generally functional
person, leave at 8:30, home
by three, hours in the library,
meetings with professors,
hands raised, questions answered
with a "very good, Miss
Holbrook," it's a suprise how
ultimately well I'm just
not

mission

My goal in life:
fighting the good fight
against sobriety wherever
it may lurk. Think
I'm winning.

not even a little pactways

As I read the last words of
the State of Texas Department
of Corrections (on the advice
of Linda Meyer), I thought
of mine, aside from the obvious--
love you, family and friends,
etc.--eight words to you. No
matter what you did
or said--
I never broke my promise.
Love you always.

Isn't that a laugh?

hurry up

it has come to my attention that
my statute of limitations is
about to run out. So let's
make this quick, okay? Here
we go: I drink
a lot and sometimes
it's cold (not yet
it is POETIC LICENSE)
and I am sad
about my ex-girlfriend
I think that
covers it

competition

She fills pages of the legal pads I gave her
with "banana-spiders," "ethereal," "centenarian"
from the Coffeehound--not house--
and a thousand miles away I fill mine
with "auditor," "magistrate," "unenforceable."
I think two lines a day and call it
poems. I worry she thinks she
has lost me, or I have lost myself
to statutes. Restatements. Archaisms
never my style, now my trade.
But listen close to the poems
I'm not saying.

inevitable

only early September and
already I repeat myself

day so far

best
sandwich
ever

an apology

sometimes all I know how to say is
I miss you

faith

"You believe in love and not
the things that get in
the way," I told you. And
me--what do I
believe?

doesn't really matter

"You're being vague, Amy," she
warns, as though I'm not always
repeating myself with
different words

morning

Now when I look to the horizon
it seems higher

almost-autumn

I am singing in German and
holding on
fast.

echo

I got to a small and specialized
school one thousand
miles away and
my heart
is too
full

one for the other one

Word on the street is
you loved me once, something
about a garnet ring and popcorn
on the pier, but it doesn't
sound familiar. I don't buy
it for a second.

write me

As I pour myself juice from
a pitcher--habit one of a thousand
I picked up from you--I survey my
too-white walls: a calendar, photos,
you and a heron, and the rest of the Core
Four, an award, a greeting card, I combat
the emptiness with
mementoes of you, just like
I never leave the house
without bracelet and bottlecap and paper
heart--you never realized it
was mine, begging you
to fill me with words and
phrases, relieve me of too much
white.

places we didn't go

I'm sick of things
unrequited and I'm sick of
almost and maybe in some
alternate reality where
you dream you could have loved me,
you who followed my blonde
streaks to the horizon, or even
you who put them there in
directly when it's never
quite.