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.
“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.”
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
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?
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 !
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?
7 responses to “Conversion Poem (Weds)”
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.
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.”
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
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?
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 !
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?
The format gets messed up so here is a link to the doc:https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jOkCBTP7zz2EbZP-CCTAshv_gj-GwhhZs_x4Q0q3Afs/edit?usp=sharing