The Sunday Poem

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”

I got this missive from Bartle
With qualms that my poetic art’ll
Diminish the blog —
Perhaps make it bog —
Take it over in whole or in partle.
Read More “The Sunday Poem: The Richard Bartle Limericks”

I only did two poems based on aquarium fish, and really, one of the fish was an amphibian. The african clawed frog we had almost seemed like a robot — he lived just to eat. Eventually, this caused his demise, when he inadvisedly attempted to swallow the head of a kuhli loach. Kuhli loaches, like other loaches, have blades somewhere near their head, or sharp barbels, or something. Enough to do some damage, at any rate.

Read More “The Sunday Poem: African Clawed Frog”