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Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

This week’s selection for Poetry Wednesday is this:

 

I believe my muse for this one was a blowhard artist who incorporated only “found beach objects” in his work and kept name dropping while referring to the hundreds of art classes he’d attended all over the globe. I wondered if in reality he was simply asking people to send him postcards. I apparently had a child with me, which means Buck must have been very busy as well that day. If we were without daycare for whatever reason, Buck usually brought them to the bike shop with him. Depending on which son I had with me, that drawing to the left is either a song (Max) or a story (Sam) written while waiting for the blowhard to stop talking.

 

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This poem is from the collection titled My Old Job. As always, I wrote it somewhere between 1990-1992. Staff meetings were new to me then, and I thought there was something wrong in the way our meetings turned out. As I became more experienced I realized that all staff meetings everywhere go like this.

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This week for Poetry Wednesday I offer a poem from my collection titled Neighbors Who Totally Suck. It was written in 1991.

I apparently felt inspired to illustrate this one, though to post it here I cropped my shocking interpretation of this neighbor, lest you get the wrong idea about me and think I’m into scrawling really weird badass porn.

For Anne on a Sunday Morning

Anne I hate you

what the fuck are you

doing over there

that makes my dogs

all howly and spastic?

 

Are you playing

your god awful clarinet

and tossing hotdogs

into the middle of my dog pack

just to burn my ass?

 

Your dogs are way worse

than mine

but you don’t jump

  out of bed to silence them

like I do to mine.

Yet it’s always me

who gets yelled at for

what you’ve done

to eight fucking dogs

if you count yours too.

I hate you

and you just stand there

with your old yankee lady

haircut and your

feigned innocence.

 

Die Anne die

you crazy old bat

who shares a fence

with us and plays

dog music at dawn.

 

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Every day is Groundhog Day here in El Paso.  Wednesday, Saturday, what’s the difference?

This week’s post for Poetry Wednesday is a poem I wrote in 1990.

when i go home

whenever

i go back to my hometown

to visit my family

i always refuse

to go out for coffee

or dinner

or to the supermarket

because i just know

that if i do

number one: my family

will get money out of me

and number two: i’ll see

somebody i grew up with

or worked with

or something

and then i’ll have to quickly

turn my head

and pretend i never saw them

 

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Poetry Wednesday

 Okay, look. This was supposed to be posted on my other blog, but I screwed it up yet again and it’s ended up here. I’m not moving it. It’s too complicated a process and I’m not typing this whole thing in all over again over there. So yeah, this post is staying right here and so yes, I am going to post my poetry here every Wednesday as part of my newly-invented Poetry Wednesday from now until I get to the end of my notebook. I’m doing it even though my next post was supposed to be about you-know-what: Sea-Monkeys. (Update: I’m close now, I’ve got the bottled water and the costly-costly batteries for the tank. )

Curious C at Idea Jump! is lucky enough to still have possession of her journals from when she was a kid. I am so jealous of this. The closest I have is some poetry I wrote in my late 20/early 30s.  My poetry phase came about from my disgust with the people I saw getting their poems published. So I decided I would do this also, to prove my point. I would write whatever popped into my head and then submit it for publication. And I did get my poetry published, in a literary magazine the name of which I do not want to publish here because I don’t want to embarrass them, but it did prove my point.

Recently, Buck found a whole notebook of these poems I’d written, and I’m very pleased because they’re all so inane.  I’ve decided to publish one each Wednesday for what I call  Poetry Wednesday. Here’s the first one. I only wish I could remember who it was about.

your hands

that thing you were doing

with your hands

at the town band concert

made me so sick

i had to leave early.

 

just watching you

standing alone

across the green

making those gyrations

was too much to bear.

 

you used to do that

in high school

at basketball games

and we’d watch you

from across the gym.

 

what the hell

is going on

inside your head

anyway?

 

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