Poem 20150920

with the lights off
during the video
in world history
he leans forward enough
to put his hands on
her neck
her shoulders

her sweater is heavy
cable-knit and rough
under his moving fingers
the narrator talks and talks
about the barter system
and the beginnings of
banking

she moves her hair
and leans back
and he can touch
the skin of her neck
while he kneads her
flesh

his legs are just long enough
so that his knees press
against her
through open frame of her chair
his pants legs pressing
against the heavy skirt
that all the girls seem to wear
but it doesn’t matter

by the time the narrator has
started to talk about minted
currency his hands and her shoulders
are the same hot temperature

and when the lights come on
he slides his legs back
and she turns and whispers “thank you”
and he says “you’re welcome”
but really he’s saying “thank you” too
and they never speak of it
and it never happens again

Poem 20150919

i feel like dancing

like flailing my arms
and shaking my hips
bending my knees
and spinning
and jumping
and doing the splits
casting meaningful glances
or just glances that mean
i’m dancing

but
i don’t want to scare
the children
or the old people
or pull anything
or take someone’s eye out

and i hate the sinking feeling
of not being able to dance
of not knowing how to dance
when my feet want to move

Poem 20150917

strike with the hammer
the blunt edge flattening
the steel still hot
still molten
but cooling by the second

only the falling strike
of the hammer
can temper the metal
forcing atoms to align
preparing the steel
to hold an edge

men in labs
can create blades
with ceramics
no thicker than a hair

but their sweat
never mixes in with the steel
is never drunk up by the thirsty metal
and their muscles will not strain
their veins never bulge
with the falling of the hammer

Poem 20150914

o, crimson worm
art thou sick

in thy dark secret, flies

does the invisible storm destroy life

that night
howling in his bed
thy love has found out
and the joy of life rises

This is a remix of The Sick Rose, a poem by William Blake, one of my favorite Poets with a capital P. You can find the original here. I’m pretty sure I used every word and only changed one.

Song 20150913

I took political science in college, and philosophy, and I never understood why people hated Marxism so much. I mean, they were funny guys.

Everyone Says I Love You, The Marx Brothers

Side Note: I used to watch this movie whenever it was on, usually on the weekends on KTLA, as a kid. And I am floored, as an adult, at what they could get a away with. Also, poor Thelma Todd.