So I'm doing it again. I'm saving a spot. Making a post without a poem. I have one, I just need to put it down. But the clock is ticking. Eight minutes left. Not my fault! I worked until 8. Went straight to Prospect Park where The Swell Season were playing. (The Swell Season are the two musicians from the movie Once.) Listened to them. Came home. Ate salsa and chips. Fell asleep on the couch. Woke up before midnight. Hurried to the computer.
I'm still working on tanka. And maybe tomorrow morning I'll have more developed, more numerous tanka to put up. Oh, that's part of my rules. I have to write poems like the person I'm reading. So as soon as I finish The Narrow Road to the Interior by Kimiko Hahn, I'll move on to another poet. Denise Levertov in fact. Ok, poem a coming.
1:05 AM
Brooklyn Tanka cont.
14
The hurt of our words is another kind of music. I forget and then I remember quickly.
15
I will cut the trees and listen to all absorbed conversations. I will sit open every ring of Merwin’s tree and listen to poems never scratched.
16
This can’t be. Another night, you crashed in your day clothes on our bed while I type away. All writing is selfish.
17
The moon hummed like a broken streetlamp. The world is a highway end to end.
18
There is no poem.
19
If I say ‘night’ and ‘our’ and say ‘flesh’, some will find conclusions. What if I tell you our night flesh is separated by the need to stay less sweaty?
20
This is our season. Long and warming to us.
21
When I wake up, I will help someone move. My hands have a start in them.
22
The streets need replowing, to be chopped and the wires rooted. The cables and pipes ground and fertilized with the slivers of a million manholes. We will grow a greater infrastructure.
23
Our landlord said the pipes are too weak for Draino. We nodded as if we’d never done anything. Our ceiling and above plumbing are replaced. We now walk on another questionable ceiling.
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