Benchmark

I have heard from a certain poet that the "long" poem is kind of a right of passage for young poets. The first time you write one of those 8 page behemoths, you have accomplished something huge.

Is it just me or is 8 pages just too damn many for a poem?

Because I really think it is. No matter how good your poem is, I will lose interest by page 3. And if you are in the habit of writing poems that long maybe you should look into fiction. Or lyrical essays. Because 8 pages is not a poem. It's a treatise.

Here is something to think on: most of the fish you can name are threatened or substantially overfished. At some point in the near future, they may disappear entirely. You may very well lose your ability to list fish in short order. Though mass can never be destroyed, populations, schools, whole generations can be. It is convient for me, both morally and appetite-wise, that I have never developed a taste for fish. I could never stomach something that still tastes like its origins.

Over the last few weeks, I have asked myself a series of useful and not so useful question, most oriented around what the hell I should do with myself for the rest of my life. I wish someone would've told me at birth that I would be stuck with myself for the duration of this lifetime. The choices I made may have been different. But not likely. I have considered putting myself in a home for the socially subversive or possibly retiring to a reservation for the intellectually challenging. Ultimately, I suppose I must do something that actually exists. I cannot fabricate a world to retire into. This is what I find most upsetting about the current state of things.

Calling the lettered

I'm looking for new readers. Not to say my old ones are bad. It's just that I'm related to most of them and the other one is predisposed to like me because we're dating. Not to say that they are not helpful. I just need fresh eyes and perspective. Does every writer/poet/artist have to do this? I feel like there should be a thrift store for readers where you can go to drop off your old ones and pick up new ones. Or a swap meet:

POSTING- 3 readers for exchange. First: offers no negative criticism ever and is very good for confidence but will ask you regularly 'what does it mean.' Second: mostly stares at you, nodding head ponderously, only to tell you 'your writing creeps me out sometimes;' excellent copy editor. Third: highly intelligent, incredibly well-read and up to date with the latest trends in literature; will refrain from offering harsh criticism if you are dating each other.

Poetic Angst

Friends don't let friends
write angsty poetry.
Just say no. It's a gateway
drug to ska bands and
unkempt hair, plum nail
polish and leather shoes
made by a fat Italian
who thinks your jeans are
a genetic disorder that caused
your legs to atrophy
into black matchsticks.

The man who sits with his face to the sun

I asked if he had a home, a family.
He replied with a cresent of white
teeth and a proverb
about the heart and its analogy
to home; "They're like fire and smoke."
(Smile) "Today it's lodged
on the 500 block of State."
He only blinked
when asked if he had been
perched on this caving concrete long.
(Smile) Silence slunk between us, froze
like a dead thing gaping up
with glassy eyes. I didn't notice
it had begun to rain. I didn't notice
the way his lank hair hung like a curtain,
slowly closing under the weight
of the rain, or my words. His gothic face
coursed with rivets of water,
drained into the still shining
panel of teeth. He shrugged deeper
into the fold of his wings.
"I would have asked
for something brighter and harder
than your blue eyes."
As I turned towards home, I was still
unsure how I could mistake
him for me.

Forget this poetry
business and bullshit.
Words become stale
and brittle as bread
left on the counter, but
words have been around
a lot longer than a loaf
of rye. I imagine the thick
amber of syllables coating
me and hardening over years,
over centuries and tedious
millennia. I tire of ink
and the clicking of keys,
I'm tired of regurgitating
night after night
the people and faces, plants and places
I digest throughout the day.
What the hell do I care
to share with you anyway,
the things I want to consume?
Paper and ideas are limited
resources.

Blah blah blah... graduation... blah blah blah... future... blah blah blah... lifetime memories... blah blah blah... et cetera.

Evite

I'm so impressed right now, I might throw up. I would only throw up over something truly magnificent. http://www.fengsunchen.com/

Today the world
is only big
enough for two
words to fit into it
: not, yet.

Knowing you knowing me, I wonder at the miracle of twin jackals being pulled from the mud. What is the essence of a word, other than the soft underbelly of the tongue?

Let me be clear,
I am not
under the impression
of greatness or even
mediocrity. It might be
said that I do
not even write but
rather absorb words
and thoughts that creep
up from the walls
surrounding me. I can hear
their echoes like hungry
ghosts, all plasma and
grumbling, those dearly departed
before dinner. I
can sit in a room
and wait
for the lights to dim,
the shades to shift.
I can draw pentagrams
in the smoke of chalk,
dematerialize into
the smoke of clay.
But I cannot say
that I have
had an original thought
in my life. I cannot speak at all.

Sometimes I forget
how rare and beautiful
a thing people are.
Then I am remembered
by an inner bursting,
a smile deeper than skin,
that old familiar
arc of kinship.

My lack of appetite for
glossed images, glazed pastry and cold
word salads can be seen
in my avoidance of all things
chemical or technicolor.
I'm not sure if this is real
or just reactionary
but when I think
about my roommate's voice, it turns to tin.
He is speaking from inside
the wall, inside a snare drum.
The more I yearn for greeness,
the stiffer my words become,
the harder it is to swallow.
There is a banquet of sound
resonating from these empty branches;
there are whole days I want to consume.

Trinkets

I had a dream last night about the way I used to love the things you gave me; tiny shards of glass with smiling faces, engorged strawberries in sugar coats, hands like palm fronds (or maybe the other way around). I remember dreaming of the jar of shells you collected on the beaches of Cancun. Your mother told me the story of how you crossed the thin skeletons of sea creatures like a tight-rope walker. You would spread your arms, embrace the wind and then dive like a pelican into the sand, fingering the creamy pinkness of the shell's shoulder. You brought hundreds of them home to me, in a jar filled with water. I remember saying (or dreaming), "Oh, Patrick!" but that wasn't your name.

In other news

I have realized
my own small hands,
their failure to eclipse
certain ripe fruit.

I have assimilated
fragmented memories
of the lives of others,
a Christmas tree, a kiss.

I have let go
of bright-colored nights,
birds of paradise, perched
on my shoulder, whispering

I have a secret.

Jonathan Bates' Shakespeare biography will change your life. Soul of the Age, read it, kids.

I have come to the realization that my friends are not the blog-reading type. In fact, they are better described as java-hating, bike-poor, meat-eating wretches; otherwise known, as the chronically un-hip. Yet, I feel proud to know they have not yet given up on print media.

Spring break

I'm flying southward
To the land of barbecue,
The land of freon.

No, mother I have
Sunscreen, tucked in sundresses,
The phone charger packed.

Yes, mother I have
Heard you talk of civil rights,
seen Nova specials.