Handicap 4, 5, 6, and 7

A few more poems from the Handicap series I've been writing at work. I'll fix that video link, too.

Handicap #4: Heart

If my heart fell out like an overripe pear,
or disintegrated or slipped out the backdoor in my ribs
to see new scenery, stop flexing the same old cage
then I could finally have room for my lungs
to swell with breath large enough
to dive to the bottom of Rue Lake
where sank that book I was reading
the one without a cover and no recallable name
about a blind boy coming to love an exiled princess
under a big green star in the sky.


Handicap #5: Sense

If I lose my sense of wonder,
I could replace it with my sense of shame.
Though I would always feel guilty
if I caught a sideways glance at a sunset
or be blushing to think of a rainstorm
with a kiss between thunder.
And if I left my sense of shame
on a bus seat while I read Picnic, Lightning,
my sense of duty might fall in
making me want to protect all rainbows
and bury every broken bird.


Handicap#6: Soul

If I lost my soul,
for the most part I’d be bummed
except if I was in some Ghost scenario.
Because two souls in one body trying to dance
would suck especially if one was Whoopi.

Handicap #7: You

If I lose you,
I won’t replace you.
I’ll adjust.
Like a three legged dog,
a loosed planet,
a bird gone nest,
a broken buddy comedy,
the morning bed,
a blank clock,
a mailbox off the route.

Birthday Video!

So I forgot that my friend Nick taped the birthday candle blow-out and he posted it up on Facebook.

Here's a link: Me Conquering Fire

To all of those who weren't there, you were missed. Not just because you weren't able to participate in the cheese boombox but because you're my friends and I like to keep you close. Like cards. Or because I'm afraid you'll go all Brutus on me.

Huzzah to living!

Handicap #2 and #3

I have like a backlog of poetry now. I'm putting them up because I want to move on to new things. And sometimes a blog is just a forum for me to say, "I finished this." It's like a deadline. Which is what I always need.


Handicap # 2: Ears

If my ears were lopped, or mailed to lovers,
caps would fit better and I’d never worry at the buzz
of clippers though I’d never hear the sneak of mosquitos
My balance would suffer and I’d have to be extra lookful
for cars, thrown items, the ambulance and police
but I would never hear my life closing;
know Death to be silent, as foolish as a mime,
trying to get my last laugh.


Handicap #3: Leg

If I lost my leg,
I could see a peg as replacement.
But as I’m not salty enough,
not menacing or hairy enough,
I’d probably make a go with a mannequin limb.
Except I’d always feel guilty
picturing the dummy in the window
one leg flapping in the AC,
balancing forever in the latest style.

Contingency #7 and Handicap #1

Just some stuff. Val and I are working on a couple projects together right now and I'm excited about them. These poems are kind of a departure from what I'm usually writing but some of them might make the cut. I'm still collecting poems for my first book and I haven't really figured out all what the parameters of this book will be. Especially as I write new stuff and hate old stuff. That's why I have to collect it soon before I hate everything.

Contingency #7: Vanishment

If things begin to disappear,
if you’re sitting and the pepper goes while you’re salting,
then you’re up getting the phone
and you notice the cord is missing
and so is the typewriter and the pushmower
is not rusting in its place against the fence
and beyond the fence a neighbor smiles from a new face.
So you’ve lost the comfort of your favorite chair,
the world is splashed in unfamiliar shadows,
the places you used to go are switched
with places others will someday used to.
And a voice is gone,
even the pain of that is being sifted out
as your vision everyday needs stronger correction
to keep the world from jumping ahead,
spinning into something you can’t even dream.


Handicap #1: Finger

If I lost my finger,
I could finally replace it with something better.
Like a mini flashlight,
or a backscratcher or an unloseable pen
or a gum or candy dispenser,
or healthier, like a daily replaceable carrot.
If I lost two fingers,
I’d have room to attach my cellphone.
If I lost three fingers,
I would always hang loose.
If I lost four fingers,
I would never talk,
only approve or disapprove
like a Roman Emperor.
If I lost five fingers,
I would only be sad during shadow puppets,
when I could shape only a tree,
to give shade to the dogs and birds and gators.

If You Don't Love This a Little, You're Dead Inside

Contingency 5 and 6

So I lied. I didn't finish the one about Valerie and I will put that up. These were on my mind though. I promise to get back to other stuff non-poetry. I don't know who I'm promising. Blogger gods? The random Argentinian lad who is following this? Anyway. Here's these. I'm just about done with this series and then I have another short poem series called Handicaps that I'm working on.


Contingency #5: Missing

If you lose your house, get to the store
and buy the same doorbell.
Now stand in the middle of a yard
that looks like your yard on a street
like your street ringing it.
To learn you never lost it,
you abandoned it.
Everyday. With every step.


Contingency #6: Escape

If your house is on fire, the question isn’t:
“What would you save?” but “How fast is it burning?”
If the inferno comes quick enough to burn the beams,
then leave, leave it all to ash.
Maybe if the blaze is just a bit glaring,
centered at the dining table, loud in the living rooms
you’ll be safest sneaking out a window,
carrying as much as you think you can take.
If it’s just singeing, blind to you, melting
the soles a little when you walk by its source
on the couch or standing at the sink,
see if it flares when you walk out the front door.
When it’s just a campfire at your back,
you’ll have room to edge out the big stuff,
jack be nimble yourself for a long while,
keeping your head down beneath the smoke.
And maybe if the fire is just an ember
a flame’s egg hiding in the walls,
if we mostly just smell it all our lives,
maybe we’ll all make it out.

Contingency #4

Some of these little poems I like, some of them I'm okay with. This one and Numero 1 are probably my two favorite out of these. Well, maybe, number 6 as well. I know it's three posts in one day but I really want to just write these down and get to some other poems I have stirring in my brain. In fact, my next post won't be poetry related at all. It's going to be what I think Valerie does all day at her job.

Contingency #4: Whiteout

If you get snowed in, deep locked into your home,
so long the food runs out,
I suggest peeling the walls to find the mice,
or scouring the attics for nests, for beehives.
And when those are gone, even the cold bodies
of ants which taste like raw tabouli,
and you’ve dug through the crevices, the cushions,
maybe even boiled your leather jacket,
turn next to the wood.
Try the well traveled.
Saute the banisters, rich with the proteins
of years of hands and arms,
it will taste like strangers and the parts of you
will warm like comfort food.
After the walkways, after the desks and brooms,
save the dining table for last.
And scrape at its surface softly, like a butter dish,
years of meals shared sunk into its lumber.
Waiting for you like a switchboard of memories.

Contingency #3

I have other plans for this poem. This is just the original I wrote down at the store. It's sort of Shell Silversteiny, sort of kidsy.

Contingency # 3: The Sun

If someone moves out of your house,
you can always invite the Sun to come visit.
And it will seem exotic, like an event
when he strolls to your door with his two metal bags.
But the Sun is very hard on a house,
always scorching the cushions and spontaneously
setting fire to paperbacks and wreaths.
He hates electric lights, sighing obnoxiously
if there’s one on to compete with him.
And his sighs are thick, tropical breezes.
He won’t be all bad because he’s got the best stories,
but don’t try to tell him anything because
“There’s nothing new under Me” he’ll say.
You’ll always feel a bit microwaved
and be very tanned on one side.
No fruit will ever remain raw, no pet uncooked.
But he’ll spend every night on your porch
watching the moon slow waltz the sky.
And you’ll say to the big guy,
“There’s other moons in the galaxy, you know?”
And he’ll say, “Not for me.”

Contingency #2

So the rules to these short poems is that I can only scribble them at work, they have to be short and they all have to be "What If" poems. This one was a little longer than some others but I'll show you. So it's not really a poem a day because most of the time I wrote seven a day. Not all of them are winners but I'll post them anyway.

Contingency #2: Bogs

If you’re sad for a long while,
a bog will move into your basement.
And sure, you can still live with a bog
because it’s in the basement and we often forget
what’s in our basements.
For a time you can just live around it,
get the wash using a card table raft, a ruler for a paddle.
The dryer will be useless (defunct by name even)
but the washer will still wash and it’ll agitate the cottontails
into a swash of seeds sifting in the dust light.
A downstairs freezer will keep moccasins sleepy
and the water heater will incubate the tadpoles
into a dream time soundtrack piped through the house.
But if you can’t break off this sadness,
the bog will brim the staircase, the lily pads will snake
up through the ducts and choke your house in flowers.
Any visitor will have to wear galoshes,
have to talk over your shrill of mosquitoes.
You have to let go before it tops your bed,
and enters your ears, and soaks your body heavy,
so sopping you never leave, breathing the wetness
listening to life underwater and distant.

So let it dry. A puddle will likely remain.
And somedays you’ll go down to visit,
tarry, and then return upstairs.

Short Poems: Contingencies

So I've been writing these little poems at work while I wait for customers. I have a general idea, and then I write like 8 or 9 of these and then move on. I'm going to post them up as I have nothing longer to post up at the moment. So here's the first Contingencies poem.

Contingency #1: Space

Sometimes your house will be shrinking,
the limbs of your siblings will suddenly bang against you
at the dinner table and hallways will become impassable by two
and music will stack on top of voice on top of television
and so long the furniture which once fit you all,
even the sink which you know once held your entire body,
has been reduced to a space slightly bigger than two open hands.

But worse is when your house expands,
when you walk from one room into another
and then can’t seem to find that original door.
You’ll call in this house and it’ll take time for your family
to answer you back, and you’ll have dinner at a table
seemingly so long, your family must be at the unseeable
opposite end blocked by huge flowers, or maybe trees, even roads.
And then one day your room is as big as New York,
and your sister’s as big as Michigan and you can’t drop in anymore,
squat on the floor next to their bed, read a comic book,
listen to their new favorite song.