Writing

Apologies in advance for a grim poem this week!

Outside School, Lima

I saw it on the flatbed: a horse
belly slit open, large chunks
of meat missing, hide flapping

like a flag, tail dripping off
the edge of the truck

cars jostled to follow it, every one
full of children like us, begging
their mothers, asking
for nightmares

I got none, but I have to tell
the story, or else the horse
died in vain, and the children
will have nothing to worship

no flag to follow
no rules to break and later obey

Read More “The Sunday Poem: Outside School, Lima”

This one merits an explanation in advance. 🙂

I’ve spent a lot of my life around creative people. A lot of people dressed in black, long overcoats, occasional breakdowns (while I was the resident assistant for the creative arts floor, we “only” suffered through a few mental breakdowns, one drug-induced miscarriage, one fire, one suicide attempt, and a half-dozen alcohol poisonings…), and of course, talent.

I’ve also now gotten to know a few “guru” types — particularly from the world of SF (yes, Bruce, David, Cory, if you’re reading this, I mean you). There’s some patterns to be seen (and I hope they don’t take offence!). A habit of preparing and practicing good phrases to drop into conversation. A certain manner about them that combines a brilliant mind with a certain degree of performance — expansive gestures and a fired-up passion about whatever they happen to be talking about. Getting past that to get to know them can be a little tricky, actually.

Well, long ago, “The Imaginary Playmate Speaks” opened the door to a series that I called “the genius poems.” They were about an “invisible playmate” who was, in some ways, the dominant partner. Someone who had the qualities described above: the aspects of guru and of talent and of, yes, kook. Someone who was both right and also needed puncturing.

I wrote a hell of a lot of these; probably thirty or more. This one here is one of the more sarcastic ones.

Of course, by posting this, I am giving away all of my secrets, and now all of you can get as many speaking invites and interviews as you like!

Read More “The Sunday Poem: How to be a Genius”

These days when I mope in the corner
and look at him
                              a GrownUp
                                                    a giant with big bad teeth
I remember when the world was made
                                                                 of invisible putty
shaped by stretching out a hand
and more easily made alive
                                                    than dead.
                                       Especially when he mopes
slumped in that chair glaring
at a blank page or at nothing.

I used to try to drag him outside
and talk him into the tights & cape
                          or make him notice
the waxiness in flower petals
                                                    the warts
on a tree’s hairy toe
                                       the greenfingers
of the rug lint             
                           that scratch the walls
or even my dress, I made it myself
out of dandelion mane and mud.

but lately we just sit

on opposite sides of the room             I wish
I could be solid for just a bit
             and stretch my arms!

Can’t attract too much attention
                                                        to myself though
                          or he’d undo me with his eyes.

He got the monster under the bed that way
and the unicorn                          and also his wife

a love poem

Towards the soundhole they come closer together—
crunched at the high notes, hash marks
on mahogany. They lay there, unconscious,
limp under fretting fingers; the strings do all the work.
After a few million notes they wear down, melt
into the wood, develop smaller hash marks of their own,
calluses where I press their spines.
Read More “The Sunday Poem: The Frets”