Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Spooky Avalanche of Poems

When breakfast is all you can manage
don't skimp on the spices.

My notebook has holes for you
&the binary date is echoing your name.
This humming hollow is just the right shape
for the dips and nods of your laugh.
The hours are sideways without you,
waiting to be tipped by your smile.

Despite the fishnets
Tried too hard.
Fucked up.
Made less money than usual.

At 3AM I was ready to crash in the back seat,
a bouncing red voice drew me out.
Danced fearless until a 6AM sunrise
By then our voices had faded to the perfect pitch of orange.

On my birthday
the smallest children discuss Harry Potter at the breakfast table.
The devouring is slow and spiced
smoothing over the anxious footprints.
I can taste that the croutons were yesterday's bread.
my waitress opens the air for the sharing of stories,
our mouths hitch-hiked from Santa Cruz to Alaska
a thumbing tongue coaxes a red smile from the brake lights.
After a thin saunter westward
my body is finally the weight it should be.
The boots don't matter anymore
and my soul is stuffing dance under the table.
The desserts jeer from their perch near the cash register,
their doughy mouths giggle as I break eye contact,
this doesn't worry me
I've got a kinder pie at home
&it's really not breakfast anymore,
she got drunk on too much sunshine:
October was never supposed to be this good.

On the edge of 24
my body took a walk in my grandmother's boots,
each stride tried to muscle past the loneliness,
I leaned back from the gravity of my comforts
and waited for my New City to swallow.

This body is not a dog or a pony or a bearded lady,
this body is a tightrope
balance radiating out,
like the glow from a beautiful face,
not just reaching out,
but dancing in every direction.

I should be writing a poem,
but I've opted to stay in my skin,
gonna eat all the pleasures in the room
split & pit each fruitful noise
and let the the bitters crawl back to November.

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