Conversion Poem (Weds)



7 responses to “Conversion Poem (Weds)”

  1. conversion poem:
    familiar pistol

    there’s a woman a woman
    actually i know there’s a woman
    behind every wall a woman
    and her breaths are orange #FFA500
    some hex code
    only a drunk
    useless
    long haired ex-father
    could love

    and on her
    wings white wings
    pieces of fruit
    shape themselves into families
    and they live together
    and die together

    in albuquerque a gun range
    is sleeping and
    inside the mouth of a
    familiar pistol
    i curl up and pretend i am
    still in
    my mothers womb.

    i scream like a highway
    on tuesday
    and why is it always tuesday?
    in our lovelike flood
    i dream that
    you wore a priest’s collar
    only i could take off
    and
    underneath there’s no throat
    only butterflies.

    there’s a woman a woman
    inside every vein of
    chipping orange paint
    a woman.

  2. Writing Exercise

    “Pick your favorite color”
    “No no, not that one. Try again.”
    Red?
    “That’s fine.
    What does red evoke?”
    Roses, love.
    “No, too corny, too cliche.”
    Blood?
    “Gore doesn’t belong in a poem.”
    Grass
    “Unique, original, but why grass?”
    “What does red grass represent?”
    Decay, juxtaposition, love.
    “Not love again,
    It’s too overdone.
    Start over.
    You’ll never be published.”

  3. Memories
    In
    Black and white
    On
    Grainy film.
    Memories
    Of
    A
    Man
    Moving
    Through a room
    Of frozen bodies.
    Memories
    Of
    A
    Man
    With
    Electric hands.
    Memories
    Of
    A
    Man
    Walking
    In The Woods
    And of
    A
    Haunting
    And of
    A
    Run.
    A Run?
    A chase
    By a ghost
    To the cemented
    Space
    Of where
    We sealed
    Our
    First
    Kiss

  4. 1. Fingers covered in gloves and the taste of stale coffee is home now
    2. Fingers covered in blood
    what once
    been home
    now
    gone
    3. Fingers, hands, arms, a body I call home
    4. Coffee at home, cold
    fingers curl around a styrofoam cup
    stale
    5. Gloves discarded at home
    Cold and a wish,
    hot coffee
    I see a gas station
    6. So what is home?
    7. Homesick – I am sick of my home
    8. Home is now
    9. I lick my fingers and I taste
    toast
    a toast?
    a toast to life
    no
    a toast to home
    10. Stirring coffee covered with foam
    11. a toast to now and home and stale coffee
    someone cries
    I did it
    I wrote a toast
    I wrote a poem
    Now, did I?

  5. Unconventional
    I went, with keys in my pockets
    These tight jeans are ideal
    I look at the ceiling. My muse.
    Oh la. My splendid love

    My unique clothes are too large
    Letters sticking out of my pockets
    Bills and coins on this big avenue

    So many routes
    In September, should I go left?
    Where should I go with my red wine?

    Where the trees are fantastic
    With the tired hearts
    My body is close to my heart

    The actual poem-

    Ma bohème

    Je m’en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ;
    Mon paletot aussi devenait idéal ;
    J’allais sous le ciel, Muse ! et j’étais ton féal ;
    Oh ! là ! là ! que d’amours splendides j’ai rêvées !
    Mon unique culotte avait un large trou.
    – Petit-Poucet rêveur, j’égrenais dans ma course
    Des rimes. Mon auberge était à la Grande-Ourse.
    – Mes étoiles au ciel avaient un doux frou-frou
    Et je les écoutais, assis au bord des routes,
    Ces bons soirs de septembre où je sentais des gouttes
    De rosée à mon front, comme un vin de vigueur ;
    Où, rimant au milieu des ombres fantastiques,
    Comme des lyres, je tirais les élastiques
    De mes souliers blessés, un pied près de mon coeur !

  6. Happy Again?

    the sweet smell of pancakes silk falls off put on cotton for the day
    chair
    empty
    Take the bus to work and back
    Back to an empty chair
    pokes her pasta;
    empty
    chair
    Bookshelf collects dust in the old house
    Sound of the rusty piano fills in the living room
    Haunting silence new house
    empty hearts empty chairs
    New house not a home
    jokes
    cracks
    laughs
    lost
    Happy?
    Happy?
    Again?

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